Fading Black & White
by Noodlehoops
Summary: Michiru finds her irresitible intrigue with the mysterious & unpredicatble Haruka deepening more than she ever could've expected in the wake of H's sudden excursion. How will Michiru decide to act as their reunion draws nearer? My 1st fic : T for cursing
1. Chapter 1

Today, I'm thinking of Laika

_This is my first fanfic here :S my style is quite drawn out and poetic – I like to elaborate on my scenes and characters, so I'm sorry if you find it a bit slow! Please take the time to review; if the response is good I'll get working on Chapter 2. This is a very long chapter, don't get too high expectations, I just wanted to give this story a good kick-start. Peace! x_

-

Today, I'm thinking of Laika.

My gaze drifts out over the lulling ocean. Something, the change in season, maybe, has stirred my mind to heave itself up out of its cosy slumber and brush the dust off some almost-forgot, browning volume of old memories. I nurture scenes of some far off time and place, many lives ago, to grow, quivering, from fog and shadowy forms, into vivid tableaus that swallow up my mind's eye, ringing with clarity.

Somewhere and how, a faceless old man is telling me of the female dog the Russians sent into space in a tiny tin can of a ship, the satellite, little Sputnik. My younger equal would lay in her bed in wonder, thoughts saturated with this brilliant tale, of Laika's adventure, handsome men sending her off with the fondness with which a young boy will see off a ship he's clumsily built on an anonymous beach.

Suddenly, the colour drains from this vision. Suddenly, my heart is crystallising into a searing cold lump for this profoundly helpless, gentle creature, marooned in its impossibly tiny tin embryo, a nothing against the huge, ancient, creaking structure of the Earth. A creature sent to die the loneliest of deaths, farther from warmth than any creature has ever been before.

Bartolo calls me over from the seafront Ristorante in his deep, lazy continental rasp, and the air is now heavier in anticipation of cold and night. He tells me they always give the evening shift to foreigners, as they don't cope well with in the choking, dusty heat of midday.

"Michelina, prepare a table for Dino and Agnese, who are here for supper. They are good patrons, give them good wine," he says, in Italian twinged with a faint Sardinian lull.

"Certainly, signore".

My skin pressed against the cool rust of the balustrade as I lean out over the sea, I delicately remove one small moonstone earring. I drop it into the darkening evening ocean below.

A memorial to something warm and beautiful swallowed up by darkness.

-

Dino and Agnese rest beneath the sun-bleached cotton awning. The salty breeze stirs.

"We'll both have a Seafood risotto, and share a salad and dry white wine," muses the elderly man, in the same cigarette-softened husk as Bartolo.

"I will bring you bread, oil and your wine while you wait, signore. It is a good night for eating in the open air, no?" I make small talk in Italian.

"Ah, your accent and skin; a foreigner, signorina? Then, surely, Michelina is not your name?" asks the elderly woman, indicating my shirt tag.

"Oh, that. My name is Michiru. I'm from Japan and will return in a week for the commencing school year. Bartolo suggested I use an Italian name to help the local patrons; they might find using unusual foreign names bewildering," I smile. I lay out some cutlery on the peeling surface of the wobbly wrought-iron table. The legs clatter gently against the cobbled stones of the street.

"And you come here? Your Italian is lovely. Why Sardinia, why such a sleepy, stubborn old seaside village? Many of the people here are adverse to foreigners".

I lean against their table, twirling the frayed edge of my cotton apron in my fingers. The old man passes his cane between his quivering, knotted-veined hands with care.

"I am a painter and a musician. I like the quiet and the peace here; I can clear my head. I make a modest living to keep me going for the summer at this café. Bartolo has me work from 8 until 3 in the morning, and I walk back in the night to my villa and read in bed until I hear the fishermen arrive to begin their day at the docks. I wake at 7, eat a small breakfast, and then paint or compose on the violin on my balcony until the evening. As for the villagers, I like being left alone".

The old man wheezes out a dry chuckle.

"Pretty girl like you? You're too young to be living the slow life. A place like this, well, you come back in ten, twenty, a hundred years, we'll all be doing the same things, eating the same food, listening to the same music on our old radios".

I smile at him. I always enjoy the gentle philosophies of the European continentals, almost as much as their wines.

"Well, good thing too," I say, as seabirds chime out over the docks, "I like your food the way it is". Bartolo comes out in his stained chef's shirt and takes the tab from me, nodding to the elderly customers.

"The summer is over, signorina. The change in season, there's no better time to be moving on. There are only so many paintings you can paint form one balcony, only so many compositions one view can inspire. Now, I would like some olives with my bread and oil before my meal," Agnese winks at me. I love the browned lines that form warmly around her eyes. I take that image, and carefully fold it away to deposit soundly in my memory, for safekeeping.

I go back inside to Bartolo. He is preparing stews and sauces with the precision of an alchemist in his tiny stonewalled kitchen. The air has the heady thickness of a toyshop at Christmastime as his rusted old pots and pans clatter and bubble in lively chorus.

"Don't listen to the old people's small talk, signorina, they all nuts round here. Cheerful, but crazy, no?" he grins, holding a lobster in each hand.

I smile back. That man needs a shave and a decent washing machine, I think to myself.

Outside, the darkness sinks in, like an ink stain spreading on a shirt. I hear the soft rabble of lazy Italian chat from the customers inside the restaurant. The streetlights along the waterfront are like stars. Or the glossy, trusting eyes of animals.

-

I collect the dishes from the old couple's table. The only indication that the sea is still there, and is not just another extent of the night's blackness, is the gentle lapping and hushing sound and the tang of salt suspended in the cool, still air.

"You must come back at Christmas, signorina, and take a boat out to the crag in the evening. Take a Thermos of hot wine and some blankets; the night air is fresh in winter and wonderful to sleep in. It is good for the health. The lights of the streets in the dock is a lovely sight, you will certainly not forget, no?" drawls the old man. There is a distance in his voice as he gazes out across the black water.

"It's even lovelier if you have a man with you," winks the old woman again, giving me a rather toothless grin. There is a third of their wine still left, so I wrap the bottle in brown paper and hand it to them. Bartolo is extinguishing candles one by one inside.

"I'll see you then, then," I reply, unsure if I'm joking.

"Ah, you must, signorina. And play your violin, yes?"

"Certainly. Enjoy your wine, with Bartolo's compliments". I hand her her coat. The old man, Dino, is still gazing out, entranced, through the blackness as I hand him his. As I disturb him, his private spell is broken. Though, in the glow of the streetlamps reflected from the worn cobbles of the road, there is an old sadness burning quietly in his eyes. What was he drawing up, as slowly and wearily as a sailor heaving a rotted anchor from unsettled depths, from the deep pool of his memory?

"Buona notte, signorina," he smiles gently. I see his age more now than at any other point this evening.

"Buona notte, signore".

They left a handsome tip, and the silent remains of a quiet evening held in the caskets of two empty wine glasses.

Bartolo comes out from the deserted restaurant with a worn sheepskin coat over his chef's shirt, keys swinging in his grubby fingers.

"We're locking up now, Michiru. No work tomorrow, eh? Sunday is for prayer and drinking," he grins. He looks up at the sky. A still, velvet inkiness, punctured with stars. "Hey, signorina, I'm gonna miss you when you're gone".

I'm lost in thoughts as his words drift through to me.

"You're a quiet girl. But a quiet village like this just doesn't suit you. See many things in life, okay? Though, come back and have a meal with me someday, yes? I'll cook you your favourite pumpkin cappelletti, with the asparagus, like you like it".

"Buona notte, Bartolo".

He winks at me and hands me my wages.

"The end of summer is always so sad. Buona notte, Michiru".

The light of the village is swallowed by the night as I make my way, alone, along the waterfront.

-

My first reaction to JFK was "Ants' Nest". Unflattering, but fitting. Though, I didn't feel in the least bit guilty about my deduction, since my lifelong experience of Americans could be summed up as "stubborn, ineloquent and adverse to honesty". Though America had given me, of course, my delightful red Ducati leather jacket.

I pulled my jacket tighter around my shoulders as I selected the seat closest to the panoramic glass window in the noisy, sterile boarding lounge. The word "lounge" brings about the image of a ravishing French siren, adorned head to toe in velvet, reclining on an elaborately carved, pre-Revolution antique chaise-longue in a haze of expensive cigarette smoke. Very flattering, and not fitting at all.

I watched the people around me. All had been sure to select a seat as far away from whoever else was killing time on these plastic monstrosities. Japanese businessmen's shoes squeaked on the polished tile floor as they adjusted their weight (I understood their discomfort), pecking away noisily at laptops with epic purposefulness. The highly polished floor reflected the cavernous ceiling; it was some kind of iron-girder-and-glass cathedral, though its impressive height did nothing to absorb the incredible buzz and hum of human chatter.

I picked at the worn, whitened knees of my jeans. All I had against the huge monolith of air conditioning unit (I swore, the biggest I'd ever seen) two rows away was my wear-softened leather jacket and a thin, loose, white shirt.

Glancing at the board above, I was relieved to see that the Tokyo flight was, indeed, on time. Thank God, the sooner I'd gotten out of this hellhole, all the damn better. I'd been away in America for two years, but Japan was still home. It was where I'd been raised, after all. Oh, very much so. America was a complete culture shock, especially since I had made a stubborn policy to travel alone. Now there was the one thing my dad told me I'd inherited from him, the American side of the bargain, besides the blond hair: stubbornness. It seemed I'd always be an American on that account, though my fine mother's Japanese virtues had kept me on form.

"Hello there, stranger. Now, are you coming or going?"

I turned, and suspiciously eyed a middle-aged westerner stood to my right, bag in hand, who sported thick glasses and a well-kept salt-and-peppered beard. I immediately assessed his physique, distances, build.

"What do you mean by that?" I inquired warily. He took a seat beside me, heaving as if he'd returned to Terminal 2 after climbing Everest.

"Well, son, where's your home? Here or there? You see, and I don't mean to be rude, but I'm stuck on you. See, you're blond all right, but those sharp eyes, sitting up straight backed…surely you aren't an American?"

Son? Okay, he wasn't all that sharp then; nothing but an old gossip. The edges of my mouth curled faintly.

"I've been here for 2 years, but I'm returning to Japan, where I was raised. I'll attend a High School in Tenth Street District of Tokyo".

"Mmm," he nodded, gazing out the glass at the humdrum comings and goings of small jets, "well now, good luck with that".

"And you, sir? You are not an American".

He grinned, eyes twinkling, "oh no, son, I'm Australian. Visiting my niece in Nara. Lovely place, ever been?"

"I can't remember if I have," I mused as I held out my hand. I was sure Australians greeted as did Americans and Englishmen, "Haruka Tenoh".

He took it in both of his browned hands warmly.

"Michael French," he winked, "though I'm anything but".

"Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. I hope you enjoy Japan. The food there will certainly be a detox to whatever pig-feed they've had you on here: it is delicate and satisfying". I hoped small talk would put him off, but still he seemed to draw immense pleasure from our inane exchange. What was the point? It was likely we wouldn't meet again.

"Oh, it's a real mixture here. Though the waitresses are always very…pleasant, shall we say?" he winked.

"Just wait 'til you reach Japan. Visit a real nice restaurant; now that's service. Best in the world, the epitome of class," I replied, recalling a meal my mother took me to one summer evening in Kyoto when I was much younger. The quietly poised, yukata-clad serving girls seemed to handle every object with the ease as if it were air; breathless, efficient, mysterious women.

"Tenth Street in Tokyo, did you say?" he turned to me, eyes set.

"That's right".

He opened his hand luggage, and retrieved a newspaper clipping from an inner pocket. He turned it over in his hands as if it were some ancient relic.

"Would that High School be, by any chance, Mugen Gaken?" he locked onto my gaze, searching through those thick glasses.

"Damn!"

"Call it a small world!" he chuckled, handing me his clipping.

Just as my eyes scanned the slightly smudged black-and-white, a crackling drone announced over the speaker that Flight 152A at 19:38 for Tokyo would be departing on time, and Would all passengers please proceed to board?

"She was absolutely wonderful, you know," he smiled with a wink, before dissolving into the busy hive of passengers making their way to board.

I gazed at the clipping in my hand. It was from almost two months ago. Ragged-edged, it had been torn hastily from some newspaper somewhere that was now lying around an anonymous New York suburb, no doubt. I entertained the idea that he'd ripped it from a newspaper at a kiosk and run off without buying when the vendor wasn't looking, though he seemed too nice a guy.

"KOLDENHOFFEN AND KAIOH DELIGHT AT THE LITTLE THEATRE

New York's The Little Theatre, famous for showcasing up and coming young musical talent, were proud last night to deliver a wonderful stirring performance by two rising international musical starlets.

Dimitra Koldenhoffen, of Barnes Academy in West London, Britain, performed her piano pieces, both duet and solo, with vigour and a raw, daring flare, though never surrendering her astounding technical ability. Her performance was matched by the astonishing Michiru Kaioh, a young violin virtuoso who attends Mugen Gaken High School in Tokyo's Tenth District, Japan. Her moving, delicate performances offset Ms. Koldenhoffen's perfectly, and her solos were tremendously received.

Unfortunately, this duo could perform for one night only before both leaving the States. The Little Theatre hopes to welcome them back soon and asks that patrons stay in touch, as they release more details of up and coming exclusive international performances."

The article said only that. Absolutely wonderful…the man must've meant the Kaioh girl. After all, she was the one he'd thought I'd be interested in. I'd never been to Britain. Below the text was a small black-and-white photo of two girls standing side-by-side. One was dark in her colouring, with black hair, dark eyes and olive skin. She had a long face, with deep, heavy brows, and seemed rather bored by the whole proceedings.

Next to her, however, stood a slightly shorter fair girl, with paler hair, and glittering, searching eyes. Despite the still photo, those eyes held a life and intensity. Her waving hair rested lightly on her shoulders, and she wore a simple, knee-length cocktail dress. She held a violin.

After slipping the clipping into the breast pocket of my jacket, I slung my bag over my shoulder and shrugged my hands into my jeans, flicking my fringe over my eyes. Plane lights twinkled outside and I thought of Christmas. I craved the air of Christmas: fresh winds that almost pierce the lungs with a searing, blind coolness. Let the summer be gobbled up by the frost and the sharp slicing of cold, I thought; let the wind and snow and sleet descend ferociously upon the houses in the dead of night, like some almighty crashing orchestra. It was freedom I craved. The wind and freedom. Like a painter itches for a pure white canvas, like the itch to spoil a perfect sheet of new snow with the first muffled, crunching footprint. I itch for an open road, where the dust hadn't been stirred for millennia.

For wind and freedom.

I boarded the plane to a home I'd deserted two years ago.

-

The soft echo of the latch clunk reminds me of the emptiness of my apartment. I grope against the cool, bare wall for the plastic light switch, and the apartment is illuminated.

What is illuminated? Nothing. I might as well've left the lights off, I muse, there is nothing here to see. Cream jute sofa. Timber floor. Glass coffee table. The vase is empty on the breakfast bar.

I close my eyes and let my brainwaves slip away into the same deep, lazy wavelength of the low, soft hum of the plumbing. I am dislocated, estranged. Like checking into a hotel without business to attend to nor a lover. God, what am I doing here?

I think of Bartolo, Alessandro, the Czech girl who let me share her room in Milan. Dimitra & Mr. Douwe in New York. The tramdriver in Lyon.

My sterile, hospital-room of an apartment seems now a thousand times quieter, a thousand times colder. A hospital room where the last occupant died long ago, and no one has occupied it since. The white coats came and disinfected in silence, then left without a word.

In my mind's eye, my synapses are now mush. Muscles, none to speak of. Clunk and thud goes my luggage on the wooden floor, though the sound reaches me with a distinct delay, much like being shouted at, at the bottom of a very deep well, by someone at the top. I am stuck down my own well. No one is reaching me. Well, if they are trying, I apologise for the delay. My well is quite deep, you see.

I slide my Apple laptop from the inside compartment of my hand luggage and gently set it upon the fine veneer of dust that obscures what was a very clear glass coffee table at the beginning of the summer. I turn it on.

I think of pouring myself a glass of red wine from one of the brown-paper-wrapped bottles in the wooden crate Bartolo gave me, but I decide against it. I want a clear head and a clear, bright morning.

Instead, I go to the deserted kitchen, rinse out a dusty wine glass, and fill it with tap water.

I gaze out across the lights of the city; apartments, traffic, advertisements. The lights that trace the outline of the city aren't warm nor human, just medical beeps and flashes, the buildings wastelands of warehouses for robots and machines. The mathematical precision of perfectly right-angled streets and rows of apartment block is so awkward and artificial. The smiling Coca-Cola girl is a cold, cardboard cut-out affixed to the side of a deserted multi-story car park by long-gone aliens.

Where have the people of the city gone? All I know has quietly abandoned Tokyo over the summer. Here are the hollow remains. The evacuation party has long since left this planet. Hollow lights and hollow sounds. I call out from my well, but there is no one there to hear me.

_The loneliest of deaths, swallowed by darkness._

The stars twinkle perfectly.

I notice how different Tokyo water tastes to that village's in Sardinia. Then I remember how they got theirs plumbed through from a hot spring.

-

My glass rests on a pile of torn envelopes, my laptop next to it on the coffee table. I am in a bathrobe on my sofa, with the TV on quietly to give some distraction to the loud clatter of keys.

The swarthy game-show host flirts with his red-lipsticked assistant as the audience chime in with a hollow laugh. It seems like some transmission sent from another planet.

I open my emails.

There's something from Takeo, a notice about school books and equipment required for returning second-year students, a uniform list, a notice about the new academic year's orchestral banquet for returning second years, an email from Mr. Abe and something from Alessandro.

Feeling the distinct need for some human warmth, I go first to Alessandro's email.

Click, ber-bong.

"Michiru,

It's me! Ha! The Fraud!"

I call him 'The Fraud' as a nickname since his heritage is purely Spanish, but he has lived all his life in Italy, and tried to kid me he was purebred Italian when we met. He has a way of teasing girls.

"Are you back in Tokyo? Now there's somewhere I'd like to go. Would you have me to stay, hmm? Hmm? :) I hope you have an apartment to yourself (do you? I can't remember if you said), as maybe we'd get a bit closer, ne? Ah, I've always been fond of you pale women, I'm bored of brown Italian girls, you know.

And be sure to play your violin for me. Oh, you're so secretive over your compositions! Just like my sister! She draws and draws and won't ever let me see her pictures. Maybe they're naughty, I suppose. But you can't use that excuse: no, my friend, no such thing as pornographic violin playing. Though you could try and pioneer it. That I'd love to hear.

Well, I've never complained about a woman of mystery such as your lovely self. Let's have another drinking party sometime soon, okay? Maybe we could have one on webcam, the world's first cross-global drinking party!

Your friend,

Alessandro"

A small warmth flares gently in my chest. Nothing like friends, I think. I take a sip of water and replace the glass gently.

I open Takeo's email. It's just standard how-was-your-holiday drawl, a recount of some biking incident and a few tired flirtatious comments, plus a deeply touching "Miss you, babe!".

I swiftly move on to Mr. Abe's email.

"Hello there Ms. Michiru,

I hope your travels have gone well! I enjoyed Alaska immensely – I was lucky enough to see some Killer Whales.

I'm sure you'll see in the school issued email the details of the orchestral banquet we're having 2 days before the beginning of the new academic year. I know full well you've not been to orchestra practise over the summer, and I expect you to perform sharper than any of the students who have, Ms. Michiru! I've attached the sheet music for the pieces we'll be doing, not that I expect you'll need it. And hey, why don't you choose a solo and surprise us, just for good measure?

I look forward to seeing you then,

Toru Abe"

I imagine the sweet old man rocking gently to and fro in bumbling nervousness before his decrepit old brick of a monitor, fretting over the attachment file. He is a good friend of mine, my favourite teacher by a measure. Head of Music; a humble, very patient man who demands a damn lot to be impressed.

I close my laptop and pick up my glass, reaching down to turn off the table lamp. The orchestral recital must be Saturday. What day is it, Friday? So it is.

I decide I shall bring my Italian wine for Mr. Abe tomorrow, to celebrate. It wouldn't be the first time we had engaged in the well-discouraged practice of private student-faculty drinking parties. To my success in New York, and my future success tomorrow. Inflated self-confidence is a concert-standard musician's greatest weapon, after all.

I slip into my cold bed. The mattress is too firm, the sheets too cool and crisp. The switch on my bedside lamps clicks too loudly, too much like a brand new lamp. I am overwhelmed by the impression I'm in an anonymous hotel room again.

I lay awake. I miss exasperating student loudness and Mr. Abe and my orchestra peers more than ever.

I look forward to tomorrow, to Tokyo by morning light.

-

The powerful friction between the tyres and the tarmac of the road made my throat dry.

Oh, how long had I missed my car? I'd only had enough money to get my bike across to America. The force of the huge, whirring weight of that warm, metal hunk as I turned it at speed drove adrenaline faster and harder through my veins.

Yes! I thought, two years' abstinence from the steering wheel was worth this, this feeling. The wind and freedom. The mighty, heavy growl and groan of rubber that quenched my lust. The force, the noise, the kick, the deep surge in my stomach that a bike just wasn't powerful enough to give me.

I remembered what the letter had said. Orchestral banquet for second year Mugen Gaken students. 5.30pm in the Event Hall if you wished to attend the dinner. 6.30pm in Mugen Gaken Auditorium for 7pm start if you could only make the orchestral recital.

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard as the wind whipped at my hair with a cool, refreshing violence.

6.42pm. I smirked gently for myself.

I screeched in at a crossroads, just catching the temporary red light for some road-works. I cursed, but caught the eye of the driver of a red convertible next to me. A composed older girl, university student maybe, with sunglasses, coolly focused on the road. The other three seats were occupied by girls sporting the uniform for a local Junior High School, all Asian in colouring except one, who had a short blonde ponytail and pale eyes.

The trio spied me and began to giggle, vying for my attention girlishly. I took my hand off the wheel and turned to them, leaning back in the seat of my yellow convertible, raising my sunglasses and letting the smallest of smirks tighten the corners of my mouth.

"Hey there!" called one of the Asian girl, who had a short bob, over the drone of heavy road-work equipment. Immediately her friends fell to her, giggling and mock reprimanding her for her daring. The other Asian, who had very long hair, whispered, grinning, to her blonde friend, holding my eyes.

"Hey, kittens," I called lazily back. I was by far more interested in the aloof, older driver, from whom I detected the smallest of smiles as she concentrated on the lights, but I enjoyed the light flirtation with the younger girls.

"Well, where are you going?" called the short-haired Asian callously, smiling and touching her hair with her hand in a very deliberate manner. Her friends giggled.

"Mugen Gaken. And yourselves, ladies?"

"Well, do you like Ice-Cream Sodas?"

"Only if I'm with a pretty girl or two," I replied loudly, waiting just for disappointment to coolly tint their smiles before continuing, "…but I guess that wouldn't be a problem, would it now, kittens?" I smirked faintly, enjoying the tease.

"Well, I'm so curious," continued the short-haired girl, "why isn't there already a gorgeous girl in that cool car with you? Guys like you can never keep the beauties away for long!"

"Continue flattering me like that and it looks like I'll buy two rounds of Ice-Cream Soda".

The girls fell back into their seats giggling and tossing their hair.

"That doesn't sound too bad! Follow us!"

"Only if your lovely elder sister there will be joining us".

The older girl's cheeks blossomed faintly with a delicate pink flush. I felt her eyes on my face through those over-sized designer sunglasses.

"Now, do any of you pretty things have a cell phone?" I called, reaching for my red Ducati racing jacket on the dashboard. I retrieved my mobile phone from the breast pocket. A newspaper clipping drifted gently onto my lap.

Michiru Kaioh was gazing up at me, those eyes electric through the fuzzy black and white gauze of smudged print. This week I'd wondered in my more bored and empty hours what her violin must sound like; the tone, pace and spirit of her play. Melancholy, I'd decided, from the gentle mystery of her appearance. Would she be there tonight? A budding curiousity hushed me; I felt drawn by its small force.

"Sorry ladies, looks like I'll be having to attend to my previous engagement," I winked, as the rusted temporary traffic lights flickered amber. The girls looked quite put out, but lit up again with giggles and called out in hysterical appreciation when I revved my engine. I tipped my sunglasses back onto my face and gave a small wave and smirk, before the green light replaced amber.

With a loud screech of engine, I tore away from the girls' convertible across the crossroads, soaking up the sensation of roar against tarmac, the palpable feeling of speed that the ringing of wind in my ears gave me.

Chancing and daring myself with last-minute turns, I took the street corners at speed. Throngs of passers-by watched placidly, the occasional wolf-whistle or cat-call barely reaching me through the thick roar of wind. I wailed past surprised couples, sat on outdoor tables of restaurants and ice-cream parlours, under striped awnings and the pure early evening sky. Old, haggardly, bent-backed widows, who had gathered in gossiping clusters outside grocery stores or tobacconists, gave me tired glares of disappreciation as I flew past them, rustling the hems of bright-eyed schoolgirls' long skirts. Dogs barked; a greying, pocked-skinned old man gazed, hypnotised, at me, blank as a brick wall, from the tattered saloon doorway of derelict, flickering-signed Italian Takeaway, pipe drooping from his thin lips. The road was jammed with businessmen in silver estate cars and smart, pastel-cashmere-clad women with designer bobs in expensive 4x4s, returning from shopping trips. I wove my way between them, in the fresh, snappy smell of early evening, towards the High School.

Pulling up at the open gates for Mugen Gaken, I slowed down, soaking in the campus. The buildings were sympathetically modelled, with a pleasant red brick and subdued detailing around the tall windows. The gushingly green lawns were healthy and well kept, interspersed with softly-coloured flowering beds which gently hummed with sleepy insect life: the calm, otherworldly sound that was the sign of the approaching dusk. Roaming paths, the edges well-kept and sharp, transversed the seas of luscious green and lead between the red, old-styled buildings with a casual meandering. Old-styled, tar-black, wrought-iron lamps complemented the red-bricked buildings, lending their gentle, orange glow to the surrounding trees and pathways.

I pulled up in a free space between a silver 4x4 and a deep, wine-red, impeccably shiny Mercedes. Clearly those who attended Mugen weren't doing too badly.

I clicked my key underneath the steering wheel, and pulled my Ducati jacket over my shoulders as I pushed the handbrake into place. I got out, shutting the heavy car door behind me with a clunk, and wandered up onto the verge, following a concrete path over a lawn towards the centre of the complex. I passed lush, well-manicured trees which whispered gently when stirred by a rustling wind. The air was beginning to cool and settle pleasantly. Cool, bright air, with just the faintest, sharp sting of melancholy; the air that sombrely announced the ending of summer.

I could hear human rumble and chatter, muffled, a short distance away. Turning a red-bricked corner, I saw a mixed group of students ahead of me in Mugen Gaken uniform. They were standing on a greenery-framed redbrick patio decorated with a small ornamental mosaic fountain, near a large glass door; a door belonging to a large, dome-roofed building, clearly one of the oldest buildings in the complex. I spied a violin.

I took in breath a little, but followed the hand that held the instrument to a tall, gangly Asian boy listening tight-mouthed to the conversation of two girls in the group. They turned and quietened as I approached them.

"Excuse me, is this the Auditorium? I'm here for the recital".

"This door here, it's starting in ten minutes though," replied a sour-faced girl. The boy holding the violin looked at his watch. A pair of birds duetted in a low whistle, hidden in a nearby apple tree.

"I'd better be getting inside. They'll want me for tuning," he said meekly to his friends, before raising a hand to me, "you can follow me". He walked up to the large dome-roofed building,

The boy held the glass door open for me, and we crossed the parquet entrance hall quietly. I gazed at the high carved ceiling, hands in pockets. The rabble of the people gathered in the auditorium ahead was now louder and very clear, absorbing the clip-clack of our footsteps. The skylights revealed the deepening blue outside.

As the boy silently held one of the opposite wooden doors open for me, I felt the tiniest of twinges tighten my stomach. I was slightly tense at the prospect of seeing, in flesh, the stranger who, for the past week, had only made herself known to me by way of a newspaper photograph. A newspaper photograph that, by some strange behind-the-scenes string-pulling of fate, had found its way into my hands on the other side of the planet, the gift of a man I would never see again in my life. And she didn't even know I existed. It was strange.

I stepped through the tall, heavy, carved-oak door the boy held open.

The auditorium was huge: grand, sweeping tiers of velvetted seats (all nearly filled with chattering, multi-coloured clusters of students) lead my gaze to the large, brightly-lit, polished wood stage, where an arrangement of deserted seats and sheet music stands stood; a series of delicate, spindly, silver-glinting objects that had, for many years, soaked up so many performances, the spirit of so many musicians, and now almost quivered in the spotlights with anticipation of the performance to come. The stage was framed with swooping velvet curtains, draped over almost three storeys, that blended a thousand deep shades of red from the glow of many sources of lighting within the huge room. I looked up, and was met by the sight of the grand dome, carved ornately in many shades of red wood, with panels of glass allowing glimpses of brilliant evening blue. The room rang with noise.

Hands still in pockets, I made my way down the auditorium steps, unnoticed by the crowds of excited students bulging from velvet-red rows to my left and right, and slipped into a row to my left that was clear for a good few spaces. I leaned back in the chair, letting my hips slide forward as I tipped my head and traced the patterns in the dome's woodwork with my eyes. The dome held up a huge chandelier effortlessly, as if the glittering clear jewels that tiny, white, winking candles nestled in were but air.

What kind of place is this? I thought to myself, Middle-English Finishing School for Back-Stabbing Venomous Debutantes Living 50 Years in the Past? Prepare yourself for billionaire scandal and seduction, Haruka.

However, my train of thought was halted when I noticed a young brunette in the row in front of me looking up at me. When I clocked her gaze, her girlish cheeks immediately flushed a delicate rosy colour which complemented her green eyes a treat.

"Ah, I like green-eyed girls," I winked at her, "you're in luck tonight".

Her two friends turned in their seats to look at the mysterious speaker. I played it cool, my arms draped over the two empty seats either side of me, sunglasses poised on top of my fringe. While brunette was wearing a modest beige uniform, her two friends sported a blue-and-red, long-skirted ensemble I recognised to be the same worn as the Junior High School girls from the convertible at the stoplights.

"Junior High Schoolers, ladies?" I asked lightly, "and what brings you here?"

A blue-eyed girl, with a short, dark bob mumbled in a timid, patient voice that her friends were performing as part of Mugen Gaken's affiliation with local Junior High schools. Brunette was gazing at me with a small smile inspired by my compliment. The other girl, who had long, blonde, bunched hair she'd fashioned into a style that resembled two dumplings, stood up, staring at me curiously. She bowed with elaborate purpose.

"I'm Tsukino Usagi, it's very nice to meet you," she said brightly and boldly. A grand smile broke sweetly when I responded by standing and bowing to her too.

"Tenoh Haruka".

"Mako here is a brilliant cook, she's always making me things to help me study," sang the blonde, blue eyes casting warmth over her brunette friend, "and she's amazing at housework, she's already a much better housewife than my mom!"

"Kino Makoto, a p-pleasure," breathed the brunette as she stood. She bowed gracefully to me, and once she'd risen back to her full height, I was surprised by how tall she was, "and don't you tell you mom that, Usagi!"

"Heh, trying to marry her off, dumpling?" I chuckled, "you advertise her as an excellent catch indeed". Makoto's flush deepened considerably.

"Dumpling?" blinked the blonde, with a hint of indignation. I nodded at her head with a smirk, before resuming my seat leisurely after the third girl had introduced herself as 'Mizuno Ami'.

"Don't kid me, kitten, I sure like dumplings," I replied, as the brunette cooled off her flustered friend, embarrassed slightly.

"Oh, good, I do too!" smiled Usagi, all resentment dissolved, "Every kind! Mako makes great ones, though Ami never seems to eat much, which is a shame as my mom says we should enjoy our food while we're young and we don't gain weight, though my mom says also that I ought to study more…". Usagi sank in her seat, looking genuinely put out, eyes glazed over sorrowfully, Makoto still embarrassed by her easily-distracted friend. I chuckled.

"Come now, kitten, life's too good to waste moping". Makoto smiled at me.

"Yes, it'd be more productive to spend your time studying," Ami Mizuno advised in what was barely a whisper. Her eyes in some faraway hypnosis, she returned to her forward-facing, straight-backed position, hands clasped in her lap. Usagi and Makoto gave her a look of mild amazement. These three were a real comedy act.

"Hey, Watanabe!" I felt a soft thud land purposefully between my shoulder blades. I stood and turned, and was accosted by a trio of grinning Asian males, all my age. As I met their grins with my suspicious eyes, they all immediately looked taken aback.

"Oh, hey, sorry, I thought you were someone else," said the tallest of the boys. He renewed his former wide grin and bowed casually to me, "Hideyoshi Takeo. I haven't seen you about before. These two are Aoyama Ryuu and Tomino Hideki," at which he indicated his friends, who bowed also.

I returned his bow with a swift one of my own, before replying, "Tenoh Haruka. I've been in America for the past two years and am joining this school for the coming academic year".

"Sweet," the boy grinned, "though it seems everyone's going abroad. Michiru left me for the whole summer," at which he made a mock face of desperation.

"It's your own fault, asshole," nudged Hideki, smirking, "she saw you trying to look up Nayu's skirt, man!"

"She did not! And that wasn't what I was doing, idiot!" sniggered Takeo, catching his shorter friend on the back of the head with a light palm.

"Wait," I interrupted them, "is this Michiru as in Kaioh Michiru?"

"Sure thing," winked Takeo, "saw her name on the program, did you? First Violin. That's my baby". He high-fived Ryuu. I felt a small disappointment harden inside me. This image of an artistic, melancholic girl I'd pieced together from my newspaper cutting melted away in light of her choice of romantic companion. This Takeo guy wasn't a bad one, and easily the most good looking out of his crowd of friends with his broad, athletic body and firm-set jaw, but he did seem a bit of a jerk. And not in the least bit artistic or melancholic.

Suddenly, a clear voice announced fluidly over the ringing speaker that the performance would begin shortly. Takeo turned to me.

"Come with us to Michiru's dressing room afterwards if you're a fan," he smiled toothily, "Boyfriends get automatic backstage-pass privileges". I thanked him and nodded, before setting back down in my seat as Hideki made some very rude comment about Takeo's "other privileges", which I'd rather not heard.

The chattering crowds of students disbanded as everyone in the vast hall took a seat, and soon what had been a disjointed, blocked view of the stage became an ocean of multicoloured human heads. As I cast my gaze out over the quietening audience, the lights around the room, and the floating, icy chandelier, dimmed and a warm blackness, fizzing with electric anticipation, washed over the audience. It brought with it a profound hush. The lack of sound was dense; the weight of anticipation pressing down on my lungs as if some had just came and sat on me.

With a low clunk, a huge floodlight erupted upon the stage, throwing a sea of whiteness down upon a lone keyboardist, a Junior High-schooler, who poised her small hands with deliberation on the keys.

A mechanised beat began, clocking and jolting, before being met with a chirpy, uplifting, jaunty melody on the keyboard that carried the song. The hook was sickly and felt painfully contrived compared to the calibre of music I'd expected from this event, but suddenly two spotlights fell down upon either side of the stage as the floodlight dimmed, and two long-haired girls appeared from the wings, grinning and strutting with purpose. A gushing, pretty blonde with laughing blue eyes, and a stoic, elegant Asian whose body language dripped with confidence and passion for her act, commanding the room. As they met centre stage under the spotlight, they clasped hands, and smiled to each other, before raising their microphones to their lips.

They projected their pop piece with a youthful vibrancy, beaming out their duet as if they were sending a desperately important message somewhere far off.

I leaned forward, my head between Makoto's and Usagi's. I could feel the burn from the tall brunette's cheek in the darkness, as I whispered in a hiss to Usagi, "are these two your friends, kitten?"

"Yes. The dark-haired girl is Hino Rei; the other one is Aino Minako," she breathed back to me. Turning, her eyes met mine in the darkness, locking on, clasping. A flooding, burning blue.

The intimacy of such as gaze suggested boldness, confidence, but as those eyes claimed me all the more, I was hypnotised by something else rising up, quivering, from those two blue pools: wavering, uncertain, a force that found something in me it recognised. Her vulnerable eyes betrayed her strength of character; she unfolded, unfurled, un-enveloped herself, unveiling a weakness and a fear.

Yet, there was a profound strength in her for allowing herself to pour into me that wordless confession. Behind strength, weakness, and behind that weakness a deeper strength.

It felt like forever she gazed into me, as I gently unravelled these delicate, petal-thin veneers of her innermost consciousness, her presence flooding into me, those eyes burning their mark upon my heart. Two perfect, round blue bruises that branded themselves onto my memory like two cigarette burns. Clear and full. And beautiful.

Only when Usagi's small mouth spread into a wide smile and she turned to enthusiastically applaud her friends, with elated, zealous cries of, "Rei! Minako! Amazing!", did I realise that the song had finished and the lights around the auditorium had risen back to a low glow to mark the interim between songs.

I leant back in my chair, and politely applauded Usagi's, Makoto's and Ami's friends, my mind distorted with a heady fog. I rested in my seat for a moment, eyes closed, to allow the fog to dissolve away into clear black. The projection of those wide blue pools shivered faintly against my eyelids before, too, dissolving into the swallowing black.

When I opened my eyes, I saw that a smart procession of students my age, in Mugen Gaken uniform, were making their way steadily onto the stage, assembling quietly amongst the maze of chairs. Some carried violins, violas, flutes, oboes, clarinets, French horns, trombones and other orchestral instruments. I spotted the gangly Asian boy from outside before, eyes nervously glinting and darting about him. As students assembled behind double basses or other larger instruments, a muffled screech of chair legs against polished wood filled the quiet, anticipating auditorium with a bizarre and somewhat macabre chorus of unearthly wails and groans. Then, quiet. One chair, at the front of the violins, was empty, as was the small wooden podium that had been moved to the front of the stage.

First violin and conductor.

A hush even deeper than quiet dropped like a huge, suffocating blanket over the audience. I heard Takeo whisper something incomprehensible breathlessly to one of his friends behind me. The heads of the musicians of the orchestra turned and looked across to the left wings. I drew an airless, noiseless breath. I was still.

And there she was.

Striding smoothly, without making a sound or creak, along the wooden floor; her hair was bright, moving, real under the glow of stage lights. She held a violin in one white hand, and then, lifting her chin, she looked up at the audience, her face full and vivid. Every soft, brushing shadow and highlighting glimmer framed and announced each feature, drawing her out, out from the black-and-white picture I had in my coat pocket, into three dimensions. Fleshy and red-blooded.

Those electric, feeling eyes stirred with a blue so blue I could feel myself sinking into it, and, if it were possible, they were even more intense than they had been in the photograph. It was as if the hazy, frosted, grey gauze of the newspaper photograph had been removed as simply as if it had been but a sheet of glass, or a wall, and there she was, standing, sure as ever, on the other side.

Sliding a cool tendril of feathery hair behind her ear, she placed herself squarely on the one empty chair, with a nod to the audience, and raised her violin, as if it were nothing but air, to her chin, posing her bow with deliberation and patience. Waiting.

My eyes continued to study her as a short, balding old man, with soft eyes under his thick glasses and warm, browned skin strolled towards the conductor's podium. He gave Michiru a knowing wink, who replied with a small smile. Her concentration was utterly composed, as if she were about to perform some life-saving, unfathomably complicated surgery.

He reached his small wooden podium and hopped onto it, then turned, gave the audience the grandest and most beaming of smiles, before bowing low and turning to face his orchestra. He raised the arm holding his conductor's rod, and then, with drama, let it fall, falling into a passionate and soulful leading of his orchestra, hands sweeping and diving with an infectious energy that betrayed his old age.

As if the room were silent, as if time had slowed, Michiru's bow fell deftly to her strings, and one slender hand drew it back with a poise and concentration so profound.

She began to play.

-

"Ah, Ms. Michiru, you do know how to make an old man happy," sighs Mr. Abe with the deepest and most practised of grins. He sinks back into his chair and draws his glass up to his nose, inhaling its deep perfume with a satisfaction and enjoyment that can only be learnt with age. Here is a man, I think, who knows how to get the most out of life.

"If you weren't married, Mr. Abe, I'd be quite worried by that," I smile, allowing myself to draw, with length, another smooth sip of Bartolo's wine. Its deep flavour burns a gentle coolness in my throat, fresh and fragrant.

"Heh, you are such a rude girl. I had you down as the most straight-up, straight-laced, conscientious…" he draws a long sip"…of girls".

"Well, I'm pleased I give that impression".

"Only straight-up, straight-laced, conscientious girls don't invite their teachers to regular drinking parties," he observes. He leans forward and gives me a good, long look.

"Well, I only supply the best" -I indicate my glass with a nod- "Complain and here's what'll become of all that alcohol of mine with your name on it". I tip my glass right back and drain the last mouthful from it.

"Blackmail me and you won't find yourself in my good books anymore! Oh no, it'll be the Yamagata girl on first violin". I laugh gently into my glass at his remark.

"I doubt that," I respond, reaching for the half-empty bottle to fill my glass once more. Mr. Abe drains his, and holds out his glass to me in with his firm, seasoned conductor's grip.

"You doubt right, my girl". I fill his glass too, and set the bottle back on the sideboard, amongst scattered plastic cases of make-up.

"Now," he begins, savouring again the aroma of his fresh glass, "tell about New York, Ms. Michiru".

I rest back into my dressing room armchair and begin to recount my concert with Dimitra Koldenhoffen. The light bulbs around the make-up-smudged mirrors wink and flicker precociously, threatening to extinguish completely. They lend the tender impression of candlelight to the white-painted brick walls of the windowless, underground room. Metal coat racks stand silently in one corner, empty wire hangers suspended lifelessly from them. These forms are like the bizarre metal skeletons of animals, unmoving monoliths.

Suddenly, the flashing intercom beside one of the mirrors rouses me from my story. I press a dusty button. Mr. Abe tips his glass back with vigour.

"Yes?"

Some visitors are here to see you in your dressing room. Hideyoshi Takeo and his friends.

"That's fine". I release the button. The soft click resonates in the small room.

With a satisfied sigh, Mr. Abe heaves himself from the chair, stretching his legs as he sets his nearly-empty glass on the side. He turns to me and winks.

"Best be off, Ms. Michiru. It's quite late. School on Monday! Thank goodness it's not tomorrow, two glasses of wine is more than enough to make me grumpy the next day".

"There's enough for another glass left over, would you like to take the bottle for Mrs. Abe?"

"Ah, most kind". He gives me a gentle smile and a wink, before slipping into his brown mac, accepting the bottle from me with a nod. I rise from my chair, and walk with over to the white door, opening it for him with a click.

"Thank you, Mr. Abe," I say quietly. He gives me another wink.

"Not at all. It's your wine. Goodnight".

I watch him stroll down the concrete, underground, catacomb-like corridor under the harsh, flickering UV striplights. He hops up the bare grey stairs, and nudges open the firedoor. A small gust of cold night air reaches me, and then is gone with the slam of the door.

"Michiru!"

I turn and Takeo is striding up the white-walled corridor, making the Mugen Gaken uniform look good, with three other boys in tow.

"Oh, hello, Takeo. Would you like to come inside? I'm just packing my things away, I'm quite tired". Once he reaches me, he leans in, resting one hand lightly on my shoulder as he kisses my cheek. After he has redrawn to his full height, I manage a smile and lead him by the hand into my dressing room. His friends follow.

Back within my low-ceilinged, bare room, I recline into my armchair, gathering my scattered, half-used remains of dusty, oily make-up into a clear wash bag. Takeo and his friends gather in the doorway.

"You were brilliant, Michiru. Everyone's really, really impressed. Mr. Abe seemed pretty thrilled with you, didn't he?"

"Thank you, Takeo," I state with a certain degree of flatness. I turn in my chair and gesture to a rather old, tattered sofa next to a pile of cardboard boxes, "please, have a seat everyone".

Takeo's friends place themselves politely on the sofa while he remains leaning, posed, in the doorway. Two of them I recognise as Ryuu and the Tomino boy. The third, I'm sure I've never seen before. He wears plain clothes, jeans and shirt, and a leather jacket, which he hangs on the back of the sofa. He is rather tall, as tall as Takeo, with a slim build and a mess of pale, dusty hair. Maybe he frequently runs his hands through it, like Takeo. Which would make him a flirt.

As Takeo garbles a story from his recent summer holidays about two DJs who got into a fight, the blond boy realises I'm watching him. He looks up.

"-oh, yeah," Takeo notes abruptly, "Michiru, this guy's a fan of yours, he was asking after you".

The blond boy stands up, slowly unfolding his lean body (an athlete?), and bows his shoulders.

"Tenoh Haruka".

"Well, thank you for your support tonight," I bow my shoulders slightly, still seated, "Kaioh Michiru".

Takeo continues with his story as the Tenoh boy seats himself again. I feel a small, private flood overcome my muscles. Sickness mixed venomously with tiredness. How late had I been up last night? I glance at the dusty plastic clock. It's 11.43pm.

But the Tenoh boy catches my eye again as he reaches over his shoulder to his jacket and retrieves a small piece of paper from the top pocket. He gazes at it, quietly, conspicuously, and I feel suddenly as if I'm intruding on something and tell myself to look away, but he lifts his chin and gazes at me again. Takeo's words waft past me without effect. Background fizz. The Tenoh boy has very soft features. Small, flourishing pink lips, like an infant's, gently moulded cheekbones and a tender, fleshy jawline. But his dark blond brows are firm set, as if in a permanent frown, and his dark eyes are deeply nestled beneath them. I look closely; he has long, dark blond lashes, not short and black like most half-Asians.

"-so it took six policemen to hold this guy down, and then his mate hands him a bottle as he pretends to help the police…" drawls Takeo, smirking and he leans against the doorway, tapping his foot. The Tenoh boy folds up his piece of paper and slips it into his jeans pocket.

"Takeo?"

"Then they took out the- yes, babe?"

"Thank you so much for coming to see me, but I'm ever so tired. I got in from the airport late last night and-"

"It's okay 'Chiru," he smiles, striding towards me and resting his hand again on my shoulder, "I understand. Do you want a ride home?"

"It's okay, I'm almost done packing". He leans in and kisses my cheek again.

"Thank you, Takeo. See you on Monday". He turns to his friends, raising a hand, and gesturing with a few flicks of his fingers that it's time to go.

"'night Michiru". He gives me a grin.

As I turn back to my table, zipping up the last bag and putting in my case, I hear the creak of the old sofa, the squeak of shoes and the thud of the door. I look at my violin lying fondly in its blue velvet case. I press my fingers to it; the smooth, cool wood, saturated with all my willpower, all I've given to my music, burns beneath them. It gives me luck. I close the case, and flick the clicks, which make a louder-than-usual hollow _crack_ in the empty room. It's almost midnight.

I pull on my duffel coat and pick up my school case and my violin case. They feel much heavier than usual, gravity tugging on my arms sleepily. I strain to lift my arm and flick the light switch with my elbow. I let the door swinging silently behind as I leave the dark room for the UV glare of the whitewash corridor. My heels clack against the bare concrete floor. I count my footsteps.

I look up to the fire exit, green exit light blaring shamelessly above it, stinging my tired eyes.

Standing at the top of the concrete steps, leaning against the white door, is the Tenoh boy.

-

_Thank you for reading! If the response is good I'll hope to put up Chapter 2 within several weeks (I'm going on holiday soon so there will be a delay) x_


	2. Chapter 2

Thank you times a million to everyone who reviewed, and so quickly

_Thank you times a million to everyone who reviewed: grapesandoats, Yavapai, impersonal, petiyaka, Mantaray, Queen Nepy, Haruka-Michiru, AlterEgoErin & tears of the soul. You guys really know how to make a newcomer feel welcomed!_

_To answer one reviewer's question, no, this isn't set in an alternate universe, all I've altered is the time, place and manner of H&M's introduction, their histories, as well as their introduction to other characters such as Usagi & co. I plan to get the twosome sailor-suited in future chapters, true to the anime/manga – I quite fancy writing some nice action scenes! Oh, and the only other change is that Mugen is a normal, pleasant upstate school, not an evil hive of illicit alien activity. Like many "how H&M met" stories, it's set between R & S seasons. I'm sorry I wasn't clear about all this before!_

_I'm also sorry about the glitch at the beginning with the first line – I know NOTHING about computers! Without further ado…Chapter 2! Peace x_

-

I tipped my head back against the fire exit, staring up at the green exit light. Her door was still shut. What was she doing in there?

_Meanwhile, here I am,_ I thought, _waiting in this whitewash, industrial catacomb with its unyielding concrete soullessness and harsh, windowless stench of inhabitability._ I scoffed.

The hum of underground.

_The auditorium must be deserted by now._

Deserted. Isolated. Gone. I'd been abroad for two years; moving, without purpose, on the strange, inhospitable surface of what had been, to me, another planet. In America, I had existed in a perpetual state of slowness, as if I were moving underwater in a great, gurgling diving bell. My time and my gravity were amplified, rumbling and slow, consuming me with their vast, creaking scope, while all others rushed about me, a petty, blur in the fleeting distance. I was separated from other people.

_No, 'other' is the wrong word. 'Other' is '__**like **__me, but not me'. I was different._

No matter how close I got to anyone, there was always a glass barrier between me and them. And they were not _other_ people: I was Haruka, _they_ were people.

_Maybe not a glass barrier, then. A cage. Bars. A metal-barred zoo cage, for another species._

I heard footsteps, and looked up. The lights in the dressing room were extinguished, and Michiru Kaioh stepped out in a waisted grey duffel coat, with a Mugen Gaken school briefcase in one hand, violin in the other. She strode in relative silence along the corridor, gazing only a few feet ahead of her. I thought she might end up walking into me, but she looked up when she reached the foot of the stairs. The two blue orbs of her eyes gazed wearily at me. They seemed set deeper within her than they had been earlier in the evening, like a turtle withdrawing within itself for protection. After a short silence, I decided to speak.

"Ms. Kaioh". I couldn't think of much to say, how to broach the subject. I was definitely not the type to go figuring out my pitch before I made it.

"Yes?" her voice was quietly restrained, but still seemed stretched and feeble. She bit her lip.

"You're very tired, aren't you?"

"Yes, I am. I'm jet-lagged, and I've slept little since I got back".

"Not tired in that way". She gazed at me. The smallest sigh was lost into the corridor. I heard it dissolve away into the low, steady fizz of the UV lights.

"The Tenoh boy, is it?"

"Yes. Sort of. Haruka". Oops. _Could require future explaining_, I thought to myself.

"Well?" she heaved, looking down absent-mindedly at her cases.

"Would you play with me?" I put it as blankly as I could. How else to put it?

"Excuse me?" she looked up at me, incredulous. Placing her bags with distinct purpose on the concrete floor, she quickly returned to her full height, to continue boring into my head with challenging eyes that were verging on 'appalled'.

"Would you come play with me?" I tensed slightly.

"I can't believe this. I barely know you're name and you think I'm going to hook up with you at the drop of a-"

I couldn't help but smirk. She stopped speaking and deepened her threatening stare. She began again, her tone slowing with distinct, venomous unease.

"You-"

"The violin". She was silenced again. Then,

"What?"

"Would you play it. With me. A duet".

"Oh". Her muscles relaxed, the poisonous tension seeping from them in the silent space of the corridor, soaking away into the concrete floor.

"I know you're very tired, but I heard about you a while ago, and finally heard your playing tonight and you're…well…"

Her stare softened, though still, however, a stare. She sighed again, but not an airless, ghostly sigh as before, but a full, warm, human sigh. The little cogs in her head were calculating and processing. I could hear them working away from at the top of the stairs.

"The auditorium?"

"The stage floodlight is still on. It's empty". I moved down the stairs, and stopped two feet from her. I could see the shallow, fleshy crater of a tiny scar on the tender skin beneath her left eye. She looked up after she had finished thinking.

"And where is you instrument, Tenoh?"

"Piano".

"We don't have an audience," she challenged slowly once more.

"Play for yourself, for your own enjoyment. Isn't that important?"

She gave me another incredulous look.

"Have you ever met Mr. Abe?"

"Who, the conductor?"

She shook her head in gentle humour, gazing back at the cold floor.

"You two should have a meeting of the minds," she said. I felt her about to smile, verging, like the surface of a full glass of water about to break and brim over. Another, deep, earthy sigh of wearing. She shook her hair from her bowed face and traced the outline of a coat-button in thought.

"And…" she began, raising her head, "okay".

-

I shake my coat from my shoulders, setting it still on a chair with my briefcase. I gaze around the auditorium. Without the usual crowds of people, it is distinctly colder. And smaller. The strange chokehold the midnight hour has on time and gravity extends itself here, silently blanketing the expanse of seats in a thick, invisible dust. Without the rhythmic breath of hot candle flicker, the darkened chandelier is suspended unnaturally from the domed roof like a hanged man's bloodless corpse. The floodlight above the stage is blank and surgical. The Tenoh boy sits, patiently waiting, on the black-lacquer piano stool, leaning quietly on the lid, resting his head in his hands. I am struck by the strange illusion that his head is heavy, very, very heavy with the muffled gravity of travel-weariness and piled-up unanswered thought upon unanswered thought. Then he looks up.

"Ready?"

"Almost". I unlock my violin case. The _click_ rolls swiftly around the auditorium, before being claimed by the strange, dark magnetism of midnight as it is pulled into the deathly black. Quiet again. I gently ease my violin from its nest as if it were my child. It is. A tender, breathing creature. My heart is swelling up inside it, filling it, aching tirelessly to be released as one whole, perfect, room-swallowing sound. I rise and move across the polished wooden planks, violin and bow in hand, to take my place behind the piano, in clear view of the Tenoh boy. Eye contact is of utmost importance.

"What would you like?" he asks, his cheeks coolly tensing into a small smile as he rises into a straight-backed posture.

"Surprise me," I respond immediately as he lifts the lid. I see his hands quiver, flushed with new, spirited blood at the sight of the waiting keys. I recognise the ache.

"My pleasure". He rests his fingers breathlessly on the cold keys for a moment, savouring the approach of the release. Then, he falls to playing, fingers barely touching the keys with feather-light, fluttering precision, slowly and effortlessly drawing out all he can from the huge instrument, but not quite. He does not fulfil himself, restraining.

Sonata for Violin and Piano in G minor, Debussy.

His hands suck the life out of the piano, mercilessly, fleetingly, draining it of its spirit and drawing it up through his fingers, before surrendering it wholly as a beautiful, rounded sound to the waiting auditorium. But not fully. He is waiting for me to begin.

Raising my bow, I watch him. He lifts his eyes to mine, and I search them. His performance is lovely, but I must look for what he wants from me, what he is trying to tell me, the magnetism in his eyes he needs me to return with my violin.

_To play for ourselves._ No audience. He slips on a few technicalities, but all he creates from the piano is for us, his satisfaction and enjoyment evident. He doesn't want me to worry, or care, or think, or calculate. Just to saturate myself with our sound.

I let my bow slide generously across my violin, closing my eyes and allowing my hands to be driven by the current of his melody, my notes enveloping, enshrouding his. And I feel it rising between us, like the monsoon and a flood.

I push with my heart for that river to burst its banks, to swallow up the flatlands in song, before the thirsty soil soaks it away deep into the Earth, and it is lost forever.

-

I sat at my table, watching the clouds blossom like bruises, or sink and engulf each other, eating my breakfast in a pleasant silence. The couple below me had the television on, and the shallow roll of laughter from the audience seeped through the floorboards, creeping up to me on the floor above. However, the sun was bright. Not a cold, searing brightness, like a dentist's lamp, but a warm, milky, glistening yolk-yellow that nourished the soft forms of my crumpled duvet or sleeping newspaper. It filled the gentle, harmless motions of the street below me - cyclists, walkers, dogs, prams – with a dozy, settled contentedness. The phone buzzed suddenly on its plastic cradle. I leaned back on my white wooden chair and un-clunked it from the plastic catch.

"Hey. Tenoh".

"Oh, hello. It's Tsukino Usagi," the line was obstructed with a muffled shroud of electric crackling, but her voice was as bright as it had been last night as she spoke to me face to face, before and after the performances.

"Well, it's certainly a pleasure to hear from you in the morning, kitten. What can I do for you?"

"It's, um, Furuhata Motoki. He's the one who gave me your number".

"Oh, wow. Motoki. I remember him. At the Arcade?"

"Yes. He works there part time". I relaxed back in my chair, grinning for myself as I stirred my cereal musefully with a fork.

"Damn, I remember way back when he started there".

"He told me that he knew you when I saw him this morning".

"This morning? It's only just ten o' clock now, what on earth were you doing at an Arcade so early on a Sunday?"

"Well, that's the thing," she sighs with gentle impatience over the receiver, "Motoki told me about how you used to do motocross and racing and how great you were at it-"

"-did he now?"

"-yeah, and he'd like to see you again, 'cause today he's holding a kind of informal tournament at the Crown for the new racing simulators. That's why me and Minako-"

"-oh, the blonde Aino girl-"

"-were there so early," she sped on, clearly breathless with enthusiasm, "I thought you might want to join us, you'd be really great, and you could even win. Me and Minako will buy you crêpes if you do, that's how we bet on the outcome of our races".

"Okay, okay," I laughed, twirling my fork in my hand, "I'll come. Is it down the side street from the indoor shopping arcade? I can't remember too well".

"Yeah, and thank you so much, Motoki will be so glad".

"Okay, see you there," I replied, before replacing the receiver.

I rose from my chair, picking up my soggy bowl of decrepit cornflakes and placing it with a _clunk_ on the breakfast; a sound which seemed distinctly sorry for itself. My feet padded pleasantly on the sun-warmed wooden flooring as I moved into the bedroom, yawning and sliding my nightshirt over my heavy head. I gazed in the mirror as the well-formed bulge of my newly-minted, full hips and sunken channel of my belly button; taut young skin pulled over the virginal dip of my waist like new fabric across a loom. Every bit the racing car champion.

-

I breathe in as deep as I can. Oh, morning. I feel the sharp air spread across the surface of my lungs like the soft press of a palm to a sheet of ice. The ghost of the previous night's rain is suspended tenderly in the air, a pressure most fresh and moist, like the cool, new-bled flesh of a just-split coconut. The park is welcoming a few people, not too many, not too few; it's just right. A warming breeze tosses my hair across my shoulders and carries the voices of others around me. This gap, the odd, misfit space between summer and autumn, where the weather just doesn't know what to do with itself, is a bizarre consolation. It fits how I'm feeling right now, how I've been for so long: my heart shivering gently with uncertainty, holed-up, hiding in my chest. The seasons and I, we're both out of place.

I feel content, but underneath my thoughts and processes, there is a constant drone, a buzz that won't die away. It's like stirring a cup of coffee, only the liquid won't settle still; just keeps on moving, disturbed, waiting. This stubborn background activity reminds me, constantly, of my displacement, my alienation. I want a stop, a _click_, for everything to fall into place, and: stillness, silence. But my mind is awake; a deep, wary consciousness stirs thickly, letting me know that I am lacking. What is it I need? I feel like I am chasing something round a tall bush, the answer, but it is eluding me, and, worse still, I can't see it. I don't know what it is. All I can hear is its rustling and the nimble pad of its footsteps as it creeps further and further from me.

A bird skitters on the path, and jolts its head, looking right through me.

I slip a gloved hand into the pocket of my duffel coat, and take out the newspaper clipping. I remember what the boy told me last night. We finished our duet and the notes trailed off into the hungry midnight, like a tap trickling away, swallowed up. We were both exhausted, and thanked each other with a silent exchange of nods. As I put away my violin, the Tenoh boy came over to me.

'_I have a small present for you. To say thank you'._

He reached into his jeans' pocket and retrieved the tiny piece of paper he'd be studying earlier, and handed it to me. Then turned and exited through the wings and the backstage. A small article about me and Ms. Dimitra at the beginning of summer in New York. It was from an American newspaper, probably New York Times. He must've been in America, then, and brought it with him all the way back to Japan.

I am struck by a sudden gust of fresh thought – was he at the recital in New York?

I try to think.

No…no, he wasn't. He said that yesterday was the first time he'd heard me play: _'…finally heard your playing tonight…'_

My phone buzzes in my pocket. Still holding the clipping in one hand, I reach into my inner pocket with the other and retrieve my cell phone, pressing green.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hey Michi! It's Takeo". I gaze out across the park. Green, whispering trees and a pleasant, sweeping lawn. I delay, not quite registering him.

"Oh, hey, Takeo".

"I was thinking, since it's our last day of freedom, and if you aren't doing anything else, maybe you'd like to go somewhere with me? There's a new Ice Rink up by the Patisserie you like. How does lunch out and an afternoon's ice-skating sound, babe?"

"Well," I begin slowly. I think of how long I've been away. I know how much Takeo enjoys my companionship. He _is_ very generous to me.

"You…just want to have some time alone? I understand, you're probably feeling pretty rotten, jet-lag and stuff. And you were up late last night. I'm sorry, Michiru".

"No, it's okay, Takeo," I put firmly, "I'd like your company". I'm about to say _'I missed you'_, but I didn't. I don't want to lie to him.

"That's great," I can hear the smile in his voice, "I'm at the Crown with some friends. Meet me there?"

"Okay. Bye".

I lock the keypad and put my phone back in the inner pocket. I stretch, straightening up and lifting my weight from the bench. I breathe in deeply again, hoping the air will thunder up into my skull and blow away all my niggling thoughts. I gaze up at the sky. It won't rain again today. I look once more at my black and white double staring out flatly at me from the photograph, then replace the clipping carefully in my pocket.

-

I arrive at the arcade, and theatrical clusters of Junior High Schoolers screech loudly or gush to their friends with impatient purpose. An impressive rumble of noise spills out onto the busy Sunday streets from within the arcade, and shoppers or passers-by glance warily inside as they stroll by. _There must be some event on, _I wonder as I stride deftly along the concrete slabs, avoiding caved-in drinks cans. A handmade sign taped inside the window announces in sloping handwriting that a tournament is taking place for the latest Racing Simulators.

I step inside, and am met by a wall of sound. Loud, artificial rumbling of arcade machines, deafening from the speakers, is soaked up by the overwhelming tide of voices that wash over me from the crowd gathering deeper within the bowels of the darkened arcade floor. From far away, within the heart of the crowd, flickering, morphing blasts of light signal, like flares in a dark forest, the centre of the shouting activity. I make my way apprehensively up to the few shadowed stragglers holding a shouted conversation at the front, and pass them, pushing into the outer membrane of the huge, dense mass of human bodies. Cursing, I force my way blindly through, following the noise and surges of light that are thrown up periodically above the darkened heads of those around me.

Seeing a hand slip through a head of ruffled black hair as I move towards the heart of the action, I call out, "Takeo!"

The tall figure, standing near the centre of the crowd, turns. A dramatic, film-noir shadow is thrown across his handsome cheekbones, his dark eyes like dying coals as they glisten wavering gold in the artificial flicker of the racer machines. I see his mouth open like a guppy, shouting something back to me, but I can't hear him; I can't pull his voice from the knotted mess of mixed deafening sound. He extends his hand. With a violent, mustered push, I peel apart the crowd in front of me and grasp his hand. He pulls me through.

We're standing in the inner ring of spectators. I'm amazed at the sight of clear floor, although it is covered in running, veiny knots of cable. Five driving simulators stand with the cavity in the crowd, the light from them casting dramatic shadows across the crowds directly in their glare. However, only two of them are in use.

"It's the final," shouts Takeo into my ear. On the racer sim' two down from us is a tall, gangly Asian boy, his face a mask of quivering concentration, eyes frozen over.

Next to him, in front of us, back to us, is a tall, lean figure with a boyish crop of windswept sandy hair and, at the wheel, firm pianist's hands. My throat tautens a little, my fingers gently squeeze Takeo's as-

"-Haruka Tenoh!" he shouts, "can you believe it? He's like this genius racer, damn, he's gonna win, just look!"

His feet's frictionless sweeping between pedals, gently pushing and easing pressure, and light, fleeting handling of the wheel reminds me of his manner at the piano. Slight actions somehow producing breathlessly powerful outcomes.

I draw a sharp stab of breath; the apronned Furuhata boy standing between the racing machines screeches, grinning, as the Tenoh boy's screen flashes with a large yellow font. The crowd rumbles and wave of jubilant sound hits me from behind. I watch the Tenoh boy as he falls back in his seat, and catch his side profile, illuminated, unearthly, by the glow of the machine as he turns to speak to two blonde girls to his left. I watch his silent, smiling mouth move.

I lift a hand to reach his shoulder, when I feel myself being pulled back into the black mass of roaring bodies.

"Come on, we saw it, let's go," yells Takeo to me.

I watch the silent moving image of the Tenoh boy, crowned by the yellow flare of his machine, being swallowed up, further and further, until I'm blinded by darkness and noise. I am, suddenly, reminded of the image of my glowing earring drifting down into the black lapping ocean, smaller and smaller until it is no more.

-

I stood waiting on the almost-empty street as Usagi and Minako fell through the café's doors, giggling. The breeze was pleasant and the evening was beginning its cool descent upon the city at a leisurely pace. A few people were out, couples or dog walkers, enjoying the pleasant, final few patches of sunshine. It'd took us almost an hour to escape the arcade, after the crowds descended on me after the drama of the final.

Usagi skipped forward to my side and grabbed my arm, eyes glowing. Minako appeared, strolling the other side of her, grinning, hands in pockets.

"Thank you very much for the crêpes, Mr. Haruka!" she beamed, flashing the 'peace' insignia with a pinked-gloved hand.

"Yep, they were yummy," glowed Usagi, her eyes glazing over in reminiscence.

"All six of them, eh, dumpling?" I smirked, running a hand casually through my fringe.

"I apologise for her," said Minako with intended coolness, as she slid Usagi a sharp look, "but she'll pay for it one day when she swells up like a watermelon".

"Hey!" Usagi fell in step with her and gave her a close glare, squaring up to her. We turned a corner and pulled our coats tighter to ourselves. The sky was cloudless.

"Now, now, kittens," I winked, "if you keep arguing you'll get wrinkles".

"It's not my fault," declared Usagi, breaking away from us coldly, "I think Minako is filling in for Rei, who fortunately has slipped up on her bullying duties lately, being so tied up with the recital and whatnot".

Minako giggled and caught up with Usagi with a gentle skip, and leaned her head against the other girl's. There was a short silence, and I heard the low drone of cars in the distance.

"You know," began Minako softly, "you didn't have to pay for our desserts, Mr. Haruka".

"Well, kitten," I pondered gently, tipping my head back and losing my gaze into the impossibly blue globe of the heavens, "it's decidedly American to make the losers pay. The winner should be gracious and console his comrades with gifts".

"How gentlemanly," concluded Minako with a thick undertone of sarcasm (no doubt at the use of the term 'losers'), her arm around Usagi. Their shoes rapped callously on the concrete as we turned down into a wide street where several cars waited at a stoplight.

"Mmm," trailed Usagi with a distinctly pleasant, bubbling sleepiness, "like Mamo". I heard a soft sigh of amusement leave Minako.

"You know," she said, turning to look at me, "the First Violinist, the Kaioh girl, was standing behind you watching when you finished your winning race. She was with your friend".

I suddenly doubled my step, and blinked at Minako.

"What, Takeo?" I asked smartly, taken aback.

"Yeah, him". She resumed lolling on Usagi like a dozing puppy.

"I didn't see her. Are you sure?"

"Umm…I don't know…I think they left just after you finished". We stopped at the mouth of a smaller side street that fed into a quiet residential area populated with tasteful family houses. The high white-rendered wall of the nearest one was dressed in a lazily trailing veil of ivy, on which a ginger cat dozed in perfect evening stillness, like a small statue. The two girls turned to me.

"Thanks, Mr. Haruka," smiled Minako, "Motoki seemed really pleased to see you. And everyone in Tenth District now has you down as a verifiable legend".

I winked at her. "What can I say? Anyway, thank _you_, kittens, I had a great day". I lifted a hand, and Usagi lifted hers back to me, smiling.

"See you!"

I eased my pace once we had parted, meandering down the street, deep in thought. Kaioh Michiru had been watching me. _She must now think of me as a man of many talents,_ I mused to myself, _'man' being the active word. Damn. _The sky parted, and a deeper, syrupy blue came bleeding through, slowly but steadily filling the vast, panoramic basin that surrounded me. The wind washed over me. The last time I'd been out in a Japanese evening this clear, I'd received the news from America of my father's death.

And I had been left without a family, marooned, a lone child on this vast urban island.

-

I glance precociously at the clock above Mr. Abe's messy blackboard from my plastic stool.

"-_know _it's the last lesson on your first day, but let's get this right, guys. The success of the Orchestral Banquet doesn't mean we're free to slack off now". He raps his knuckles lazily against the board to bring our attention to the music on it, "now, this symbol – here – next to the timescore. What is it? We've seen it before in the Dvořák we've studied. The dissonance of-"

My gaze drifts out the open window. Its light curtains flicker in the swaying wind like an old, juttering film strip. My weightless, frictionless mind flies out on the capricious breeze that stirs those curtains, searching for gull-song to ease my uneasy heart.

_How I hate how Takeo senses my loss of interest in him, how could I let myself slip? But then, he has known me for a long time_.

Even he, now, can navigate the mirrored veneers I enshroud myself in. And, I admit, I slacken the tight defences for him, just a little, for he is one of the few people I trust.

I raise my violin to nestle it warmly against my bare neck, and fish through my song sheets until I am on the same page as the boy next to me. Mr. Abe raises an arm absent-mindedly as he sifts through his notes, waiting until the class is in place to begin our count-in.

_But, it's not just Takeo.__ The Tenoh boy senses something in me, I know it_.

Mr. Abe lets his hand fall and brings it up again to begin the count in. The boy next to me taps his feet. Then, my eyes fall half-heartedly to the blurred sheet on my stand before me that feels as if it's miles away. _Play, Michiru, time to play…_

_The way he watched me as we played together after the recital…no__. No, I can't play with him like that again. I let myself go too much when I play. I can only trust Mr. Abe, or some other musician I know I'll never meet again, to play music so intimately with me. But afterwards, he seemed so relaxed, so confident. At the Arcade, he seemed fine. How can he do that? How can he drop his defences so callously? That's how you get hurt: allowing people, strangers, to see you so vulnerable all the time. He's so brazen and careless and rash, he needs…he needs to_…_**contr**_**-**

"CONTROL, Ms. Michiru!"

I look up and let my bow hand fall to my side. The whole class is turned, instruments poised in a tense mid-air, gazing at me. I meet Mr. Abe's eyes through those thick glasses. I expect to see anger, but his dark eyes are set softly in brown wrinkles that tell me of disappointment. His wizened old mouth is tight with concern. His hands rest gently at his sides, not tensed nor strained.

"What's wrong, Ms. Michiru?" he eases away the stuffy silence of the waiting classroom. I hear people chatter in the corridor next to us.

"I'm so sorry. I'm feeling quite off today, Mr. Abe. I have no excuse".

"Well," he sighs, his eyes flicking to gaze at empty space in thought, "go and take a walk, get some gentle exercise. Clear your mind. When you get back, I want you to be ready to play, and I mean _play_". I set my violin down on the desk in front of me, and sidle past the silent, waiting students to my left. Once I reach the end of the row, I walk briskly to the door. I touch onto Mr. Abe's gaze. He knows something's troubling me. He probably knows what. If you know what needs to be done to make a musician uncover their absolute, true best, then you know their heart. As I turn the metal handle, he says, "be back soon".

-

I walk gently and aimlessly across to the far North of the school. The wind lifts and uncovers my neck, then retreats, like a tide, and my hair falls to rest on my shoulders again. I walk along a well-clipped path in the cool grass, my heels patting softly, as voices and sounds drift out from the open windows of the classrooms. Classical music from the art rooms, someone explaining how to plot a graph of exponential growth, many voices conversing in German on the topic of requesting a doctor's appointment by phone. The pat and thud of tennis balls reaches me on a haze of wind, so I continue on my path past the language and business science buildings. I pass through a small copse of well-preserved Japanese Maples, framed with two benches, and into the outdoor sports courts. I walk along past some older girls playing tennis doubles in the fresh afternoon air, observing their stoic concentration through the criss-cross of the tall fencing. I stroll on along the brisk gravel path towards the athletics track that is hidden behind a tall row of oak trees. I emerge between them.

A group of first-year students are practising high jump. And there is one runner.

"Hello, Kaioh Michiru".

The Tenoh boy breathlessly careers to halt in front of me, a loose t-shirt and shorts hanging limply from his sweating body. He doubles over, catching his breath, before righting himself. He drags his long fingers through his blond fringe to un-stick it from his damp forehead, his hair darker now from moisture. His eyes are on mine.

"You're fast".

"Thanks," he breathes. I can smell his fresh hot sweat – a deep, sweet smell. "What are you doing out of lessons?"

"Errands".

"To the Athletics pavillion?" he raises an eyebrow. He is quite right. The only building anywhere near us is a small, dilapidated old hut used for storing equipment.

"I take the scenic route".

"Oh, I see," he gives me a small smile, his hands on his hips, breathing still full and heaving. I look past him to the track.

"What were you doing?"

"800 metres".

"But you were sprinting". I gaze at him incredulously.

"Yes. Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you'd pass out".

"If I want to be the fastest, then that's what I have to do". His eyes are still set firmly in place against mine.

"The way you pummeled up here, I thought you were doing the 100m".

"I guess it's a compliment". He grins a small grin, "what lesson are you supposed to be in?"

"Music, with Mr. Abe".

"Ah, right-"

"-Tenoh! Being allowed to train alone is a privilege! Do not abuse it!"

We are startled by the booming voice of the first-years' coach from across the track.

"All right, then, Kaioh Michiru" he turns back to me, raising his eyebrows slightly, face otherwise blank, "I'll see you about".

"Goodbye".

He turns and jogs to his start-line and I, too, after a moment, turn to return steadily, through the cool afternoon, to the music rooms.

-

Mr. Abe waits for the door to close after the last student before turning to me.

"Ms. Michiru, I need my First Violinist back, if you please". He leans against his desk, expressionless, as the noise of the packed corridor dribbles in from behind the closed door.

"I just don't know, Mr. Abe, I wish…" I look up at him, my hands held tight in front of me.

"You went to America, then on to Belgium… France… then, Italy, correct?"

He raises his eyebrows.

"That's right".

"How many continents will you have to cross, Ms. Michiru," he sighs, pressing two fingers to his forehead, "before you finally acknowledge that you are only running from your problem. You can't fill yourself up by finding some deserted little continental village to hole up and play the violin in".

He looks up at me. I say nothing.

"You only continue with your companionship with Mr. Hideyoshi for his sake, yes?"

He catches my eye again, pausing, before finishing, "I was half under the impression it only _began_ for that".

"Oh".

He sighs again.

"I've been married 37 years, Ms. Michiru. And," he says fondly, reminiscent, "being a drifting, whimsical musician before that, I had my fair share of 'true loves', too. Take it from an old man: I know an empty pairing when I see one".

"He cares about me".

"And you are closed to him," Mr. Abe says slowly, with a hint of bitterness, running his hand through his thinning mane of fine hair, "and, I'm sorry to say, we both know he has a lot of growing up and hurting yet to do before he understands the scope of what it means to care for a girl".

He gives me a dark look of melancholy finality.

"Don't kid me, Ms. Michiru. He will not make you content. Even if he were the perfect image of the ideal mate. Because you close yourself to him. To everyone".

"But I'm hap-"

"No, you're not". He looks straight at me, searching. "You are a beautiful young girl, Ms. Michiru. You're so smart and focused it scares the faculty. They haven't a clue what to do with you. And what do you have, I mean really _have_? Besides your violin, well, me, Bartolo and Alessandro. 3 old men, Ms. Michiru. 2 of which are on the other side of the world". He casts his hand in a desperate, theatrical wave as his voice raises, brimming, in his continuation.

"I know, Mr. Abe, but the viol-"

"You have no room in your heart for young people, for the people around you," he smiles gently for the first time, quietening, "you need a little more faith in the human race, Ms. Michiru. I'm a teacher, believe me, you kids are a pain in the ass but…there's nothing quite like young blood. The world is full of wonderful young people Michiru. It breaks _my_ heart that you won't open _yours_ to them".

He holds my eyes, smiling a smile that is heavy with a deep, tiresome frustration.

"No one thing can fill you up," he says more quietly now, "the violin, a career, friends, a family, a lover. You can't pour all your hopes into one thing. To put it all into some_thing_, that's terribly lonely, Ms. Michiru. And to put it all into some_one_, that is unfair to them. You have to find it for yourself to put your all into every aspect of life. Devote yourself to everything you do and every friend and lover you have". He gives me wink. "And have a little more faith".

I smile at him.

"In yourself, and in others".

He heaves himself up from against his desk and walks smartly around it, opening a draw and getting the key to his locker out, before walking over to shut the window. The air is still, and no noise now comes from the corridor outside the door.

"Now, _I_ have a very angry wife who was expecting me home…" he looks briefly at his watch, "-now!"

He grins. And winks.

"Come on, Ms. Michiru. Time for us to go home; the cleaners'll be waiting for me to lock up".

-

I lounged on a teak bench in the late afternoon shade of tall tree, as I waited, patiently, watching the redbrick steps of the music building. I sighed, leaning back, letting the swaying dapple shade cool the sweat from my chest and face. I'd changed out of my running gear into a loose white shirt and some navy-blue trousers, but still I felt my body settling and trying to clear itself of an afternoon's vicious exercise.

I glanced at my watch.

_What's she doing in there?_

As that very thought passed my lazy mind, the grand peeling-blue-painted old door to the music building creaked open as Kaioh Michiru and Abe Toru, the Head of Music, emerged, lightly chatting. He had an old fleece on and swung a set of old brass keys in his worn brown fingers, carrying a battered old trombone case. He adjusted his thick spectacles on the bridge of his small, crooked nose as he chatted to Michiru, who walked smartly down the grand redbrick steps in her regulation Mugen Gaken embellished coat. She looked picture perfect, the ideal student, her body language smart and composed as she held her violin case and school case squarely in front of her as she waited patiently for Mr. Abe to lock up.

They started off and strolled along, nearing me, towards the car-park. I stood up, swinging my gym bag and school case over my shoulder casually. I could now make out their conversation: gentle patter about the upcoming Music exam. Mr. Abe glanced at me, then continued to gaze straight ahead, not thinking much of me. But when Michiru looked up and caught my eye, she halted on the neat brick path. I walked across the grass to meet them.

"Oh, hello, Tenoh," she said, almost expressionless, though I detected curiousity rising gently in her eyes.

"Hello again, Kaioh Michiru". I nodded to Mr. Abe. Michiru turned and caught his gaze again, and he raised his eyebrows, corners of his mouth twitching into the smallest of newborn smiles.

"I'll leave you kids to it," he smiled to me, then turned to her, "and come and see me tomorrow, five minutes at lunch. I want to brief you before Wednesday's Orchestra Practice".

He gave me another nod then continued down the brick path, whistling to himself.

"So that's Mr. Abe?" She turns back to face me.

"Yes".

"Oh, right". I watch him for a leisurely length of time before returning her glazed stare, "who's Bartolo?"

She looks taken aback, her eyes widening, the protective glaze over them dissolving into surprise.

"How do you know Bartolo?"

"I don't, that's why I asked".

"Yes, but where did you find his name and find out that he's connected to me?" she asks, slightly flustered.

I smile slowly, taking my time before continuing.

"I went back to fetch my jacket from the back of the sofa in your dressing room on Saturday night," I drawl, adjusting the weight on the bags over my shoulder, "when I turned on the light there was a crate of 5 bottles of wine on the side. The crate had a note attached with your name on in Roman characters, and it was signed off by a 'Bartolo'".

"Oh". She flushed, ever so, _ever _so slightly. I grinned at her warmly, wondering if she was usually forgetful. She hadn't seemed the type.

"I assume you want the wine back".

"Well…do you have it?"

"Yeah. I brought it back to my apartment". She looked down, then back up at me. I continued, "come on, I'll drive you to there. I really don't think it's the smartest idea to give it to you in school". I sighed with humour. "Don't worry, I won't go telling the teachers". I gave her a wink.

I looked up at the sky for a moment. The sunshine had been engulfed by a flourish of dark, heavy-looking cloud. I then relaxed and looked back down to Michiru as she lifted her gaze to me. I stood for a moment with a hand slouched in my linen pocket. I waited for a twinge of expression to break the cold mask of her face.

"Ok".

We walked in silence back to my car through the empty, late-afternoon school campus. The stirring of trees which waited anxiously for autumn's descent almost made up for the lack of sound between us. Her small lips were slightly parted. Why were her eyes so cold? It was as if there were a choking fog between us that all but obstructed the image of her eyes. The contagious spark that had quivered, luminous, in that photograph and again on Saturday evening had sank back into the tar-black pools of her eyes. Lost in the strangle-hold of her thoughts, that beautiful glimmer had been swallowed by some terrible, anonymous blackness that sucked, like the blood from an animal, the life from her.

As we approached my 4-seater convertible, I unlocked the doors and slid into the front leather seat, chucking my bags over my shoulder into the seat behind me. Michiru, however, quietly placed herself on the other back seat, placing her bags neatly at her feet and holding her hands in her lap, silently gazing ahead of her.

"Oh, would you like me to move my bags to the front seat, if you're going to sit there?"

She blinked at me, a profound hush blanketing her face. Gazing at me, I felt as if those eyes might well've been but two black circles painted on a brick wall.

"It's alright". I sighed, and placed my hands squarely on the cool leather steering wheel, before slotting the key into the ignition and revving the engine into life.

"Hold on!" I called as I swung the car from the parking space, pummeling into gear as I put my foot down. The car sped between the open gates of the school, kicking up still beds of settled leaves into swirling forms, and then roared onto the main street between two tall office buildings. Glancing in the rear view mirror, I caught a snapshot of Michiru reaching up with her long fingers to pull a long strand of fluttering hair from across her cheeks, replacing it behind her ear. I noticed a navy ribbon nestled in her hair.

"I was told you were present when I won my big race on Sunday". She looked up to meet my glancing eyes, flitting between the road and the rear view mirror.

"Oh, yes. I was just meeting Takeo".

"Right". I smoothly heaved the steering wheel round, curving the body of metal down a fresh street. Had we left the school any later, we would've caught the rush hour. The clouded evening was settling, draining the colour of the day like murky water being wrung from grey laundry. People sat reading newspapers at the tables set up in the streets outside restaurants. Weary clusters of schoolchildren made their plodding way, with an almost theatrical languorous distaste, to their cram schools. Two dogs barked.

"So, how is Takeo?" I asked over the whirr of the engine.

"He's fine, I guess," she murmured, barely audibly, "oh, and well done on your winning".

I raised my eyebrows gently to myself. She was clearly deep in thought. I decided to take the more scenic back route to my apartment, down past the Hikawa Shrine, to avoid any traffic. We sped up out of town, towards the hill at the edge of Tenth District.

"I was in America for two years, that's why I've just started a year late". I decided to make small talk, to be polite, though I was thoroughly uncomfortable about it.

"Yes, Takeo told me".

We sped on a deserted out-of-town road past the entrance to the Shrine, at the foot of the hill.

"You know," I called back to Michiru, "there's the remains of a house at the top of that hill. The overgrown road to it is round the back". She glanced back up at me in the mirror. I continued, "there's nothing left of it, except the foundations and the floor of the ground floor. All the walls, doors, everything is stripped away, completely bare. Except for a sofa. In the middle of it, there's this sofa standing, facing out across the hill back to Tenth District. It's still intact, albeit quite tatty, but on a clear night I used to drive up there and take a few beers and a blanket and throw the blanket over the sofa. You could see the lights of the whole of Tenth District, and quite a bit more still of Tokyo. This was back before I left for America, of course".

Michiru gazed at me in the mirror, entranced. She shifted her hands in her lap, stroking the cotton of her skirt. A breeze snatched us as I swung back into a residential street and pulled into a bay infront of my apartment block. The engine died and we were left engulfed in a thick silence. After a short moment of still, which Michiru seemed content with remaining in, I opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement, slamming the door with deliberation behind me. I opened my mouth, thinking of asking if she wanted to come inside, but thought better of it.

"Wait here". She nodded quietly.

I returned five minutes later, panting a little, onto the street, the crate of red wine in my hand. Michiru looked up, face still, a reflection of a statue.

"Oh, thank you, Tenoh". She clicked the latch on her door, and stepped out into the road, reaching across the leather seats to collect all the bags before closing the door gently. She stepped quietly round the car onto the pavement by me, dropping my bags at my feet.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride home? There's a lot to carry". I handed her the heavy crate. She swung her violin case over her shoulder without a word and carried her school case in her other hand. Once she was finished adjusting herself, she stepped closer to me. Those eyes, lost in thought again. I thought of two black caskets holding blacker ashes within. Then I thought of my parents. The wind lapped at my hair with a swift hunger.

"I'll see you tomorrow. Thank you," she said slowly, as if she were calculating each syllable. I gave her a small smile, glancing down then back up at her, running a hand absent mindedly through my hair. Satisfied that all had been said, I bowed my shoulders, before bending over to pick up my bags. I turned and walked to the door. As I snatched a final look across my shoulder, I saw her still standing, gazing into space.

I heaved my weight against the heavy commercial glass door, and strode across the deserted lobby to the even emptier elevator.

Once I was back in my room, I threw my bags onto the sofa, crashing down onto it, next to them. I sighed deeply, letting my eyes sink shut, trying to conjure up some logical ordering of thought.

Then, suddenly, the shrill, electric buzz of the intercom flooded the room.

-

_I know it's a shorter chapter, but I wanted to get this up before I leave on for a break. I won't have access to a PC or laptop unfortunately__ while I'm away, so it may be a while before I can update. Maybe I'll try punching out a mini-chapter just to keep your appetites up when I get back, before working on a good-sized chapter :) I've got lots planned ahead for the coming installments, and I'm really excited to get to work on them and get all these ideas buzzing around in my head onto the computer, so please be patient with me! Oh, and to _tears of the soul_: good guess!_

_Thank you very much for reading! x_


	3. Chapter 3 Mini chapter

Hello, and thank you all again for reviews

_Hello, and thank you all again for reviews. I've just got back off my holiday and have got straight to work for you guys! This chapter is going to be shorter than usual to keep my updates regular; think of it as a sort of supplementary mini-chapter to tide you over, my lovely readers, until I've polished off a nice big normal-sized chapter :). But fret not, I promise it's going to be a very eventful one!_

_One reviewer mentioned that they occasionally found the change of perspectives confusing. Well, obviously the story is told from both H's & M's 1__st__ person perspectives, however (and you may have noticed this), passages narrated by Haruka are in the past tense, whereas scenes narrated by Michiru are in the present. I hope this makes this clearer for you! Enjoy, and peace! x_

-

I sat quite still, as if I'd been caught in headlamps on a dark road. Did she dare? She did. The silence following the buzz swelled painfully in the room; a hollow thundering churned slowly, like tar, in the blood vessels of my ears. My muscles groaned back into action, the shock slowly thawing out of their petrified veins, as my legs heaved me up and marched me right up towards the intercom, on the wall next to the door. I felt as if I were walking closer and closer to the teetering, shocking edge of a tempestuous, windy cliff as I neared it, striding right up to certain doom. _Deep breath._ I waited. My knuckles pushed to bursting against my tight, white skin as I curled my impatient fists up into solid knots, waiting to shatter under the terrific tension any minute.

Then, again.

BZZZZZZ

Press. Click.

"Hello?" I breathed slowly with trepidation, constructing the word with ceremonious calculation.

"Tenoh! Celebration time! I got some beer! Can I come up? You were awesome yesterday, I didn't get a chance to say 'good job'!" came the cheerful sneer over the 'com.

Takeo. I slumped breathlessly against the wall, my poor heart's thumping easing thankfully in my ribcage with weak relief. And my throat gently lifted with the unexpected tang of disappointment.

"Okay. Sorry I didn't see you today. Come up".

I strolled back from the door to resume my slouch on the sofa. I slid back aloofly, slipping my hands behind my head, gazing at the blank screen of the television as if amid reciting some silent mantra. From the corners of my eyes, in the windows across from the living area, I saw the dark belly of night begin to crawl and labour over the horizon. Slowly groaning, it rolled inch by inch towards the city like some mammoth, dying beast, intent on consuming everything in its path before being, too, swallowed up by its own silent, heaving mortality. My heart was struck suddenly by the darkness of this image; I surprised myself with my own gloominess.

I made a silent memo to myself to stop reading those morbid American wartime novels I'd brought back with me from the States. I recalled how I loved reading comics in my younger years before I left Japan. On brisk Thursday mornings I'd be up bright and early, arriving breathlessly, with religious punctuality, on the stone step of the newsvendor on my old school's street's corner, ready to purchase the latest issue of my favourite compilation of instalments. Action; mostly streetcar or motorbike gangs and their relative adventures. Typical teenage boy stuff.

A rapping knock on the door.

"Tenoh?"

"Coming," I called carelessly, getting up and striding towards the white door to unlatch it. The door swung, slamming, right open in an unprecedented frenzy as Takeo burst in, grinning, a plastic shopping bag with a six-pack of beer in his hand.

"Please don't bang my door like that; I'm already on bad terms with the landlord and I've barely been here five minutes," I groaned, rubbing my forehead and shutting the door tenderly behind me with deliberate slowness. Takeo dropped his shopping bag on the coffee table with a shrill, piercing chink which punctured my temples like an arrow to them, before removing his parka jacket and chucking it carelessly on the coat stand. He then collapsed onto my sofa and gave me a grin as I joined him.

"Woah, it's gotten dark in here. Guess it is getting on a bit," he muttered as he leaned over and reached into his plastic bag with a soft crackle of thin plastic, and checking his watch. I flicked the plastic switch of the endtable lamp, and the living area was bathed in a generous, frothy orange bask which cast long, lazy shadows. The fresh crack and hiss of a cool beer can clearly met my ears with welcome. My prior gloom had seeped away into the shadows, and I accepted a can from Takeo, musing at the pleasant atmosphere for a cozy drinking party we had ourselves.

"Where're the others? Ryuu and… um…"

"-Hideki? Nah, I didn't bring them". Takeo tilted his head back, and I could almost feel the cold, sweet rush hit _my_ throat with the subsequent beaming grin of satisfaction he gave after he had resurfaced.

"Why not?" I asked gently, curious, savouring the echoing crick and hiss of my own can.

He took another swig before answering, "well, they're good guys, yeah, but they show off a bit around me. You're always straight up and never act like you need to impress anyone. I like that. So I thought I'd come and congratulate an honest man on my own".

I watched him as I took my first mouthful of beer. It was reasonably cheap stuff, but nevertheless I enjoyed the light bitterness of the cold liquid. Takeo leaned over and picked up the TV remote with a soft clatter, and the dead, silent screen across from us suddenly burst into a sour, superficial display of bright, moving colours and jangly sound advertising a soft drink.

"Cheers, Takeo. And thanks for the beer".

"No probs, you deserve it. You were awesome on Sunday. Anyway, I've not seen too much of you since the concert and I'd like to get to know you a little better". He gave me a wink and indulged in a good, long drain of his can. I let my gaze slide down to my shoes, resting in a rather ungainly fashion on the coffee table, alongside Takeo's. He was not the most composed nor charming person I'd met since I'd got back to Japan, yet I was grateful of his sudden, unexpected friendship and warmth towards me.

"So you were at the Arcade?"

"Yup," he said, placing his faintly-rattling empty can on the coffee table with a pale, hollow clunk. I got up and padded across my wooden laminate floor. "Some of the guys had come to the tournament and called me when you'd got to the semi-finals".

As he continued, I crept around the desolate breakfast bar and across into the darkened phantom kitchen, where the snuggling glow of the table lamp's cozy yellow lull did not reach. In the blank window, I barely caught the empty, skull-socket eyes of a fleeting ghost Haruka who hovered, insubstantial, over the city, all but shadow, before she was lost behind my wooden blinds, gone like a vapour it took but a breath to disperse.

"…then Michiru got there so we had to leave. Sorry, man". I heard the distinct crick of a fresh, full can being opened as I moved along to pull across the curtains by my dining table.

"That's okay," I called, turning, and walking steadily back towards the living area, steadily back into the bask of the orange light. It was like wading slowly out into the clear, deepening tide of a sun-bathed tropical ocean, surrendering more and more of yourself to the softly swelling lap and pull of its warmth.

"Yeah, we went Ice-skating. A new Ice Rink opened, so I thought we could try it," Takeo muttered between gulps of beer, as I rounded the coffee table to resume my sunken seat next to him on the sofa. I picked up my half-empty can and took in a moment to let my mind settle and simmer down before venturing forth. I didn't quite trust myself, but even so.

"So, how are things with you and Michiru?" I put slowly.

Takeo set his can down quietly on his lap and let his gaze hang darkly on the TV. I genuinely doubted he was so absorbed in the melodramatic love-triangles of trashy soap operas. After a pause he looked back up to me.

"I really don't know, man," he sighed, absent mindedly chewing his tongue in his cheek and tracing the rim of his opened beer car with his finger. The television threw flickering washes of synthetic colour across the side of his face that was not in shadow. He continued, "things were going okay yesterday, but she seemed really off. Not angry, I mean, just quiet. Well, she _is_ quiet as girls go, but quieter than usual. And tense".

I watched him, stilled completely. I took a slow drag of now lukewarm beer from my can, trying neither to make too much noise nor move too suddenly, as if the worry that had settled in the room was a flighty animal I was trying not to disturb.

"You know what's wrong?" I asked.

"I went to a party the night before the concert," he muttered, now twirling his can casually in the hazy orange light of the lamp, "Michiru must've heard about it from one of her Orchestra acquaintances". I was still confused, and my curiousity, and strange pity for Takeo, seduced me into venturing further, with trepidation.

"Why? Is you going out to parties alone a problem for her?"

Takeo leaned his head back on the sofa and closed his eyes. Night had almost entirely settled now; no pale, watery wash of dusk tinged the edges of the curtains or blinds. The only light that leant a fond, dozing ambiance to the hushed room was the endtable lamp. All else swam in shadow. I observed Takeo's straight nose, softly set brows and firm-boned jaw; he definitely was a good-looking boy. But not handsome.

"Tenoh, you've been in school only a day now, but I'm sure you've caught on that I have a reputation?"

I paused, raising my eyebrows slightly, unsure of the right answer at that point.

"I guess," I murmured coolly, "you've struck me as pretty athletic and popular".

He let the corners of his mouth slip into the most acute of grins, though melancholy drained all the charm from him, something which startled me.

"I'm good with girls," he sighed, again, pausing to allow himself the consolation of a long drain of his can, "you'll think I'm a pig, Tenoh, but you'd've heard about it sooner or later". He looked straight at me, cold and firm, but undefensive, before continuing, "I sleep around. I go out to parties, often with friends, and sleep with girls. I lost my virginity at 14, and have been doing this pretty regularly since then".

I felt all expression slip meekly from the veins in my face, crystallizing into a blank wall, unreturning and unresponsive to his gaze. Neither like nor dislike. I replied simply and honestly.

"Oh. Well, you are a pig. I'll give you that. A bastard even, I fear".

Takeo raised his eyebrows to me, that slow motion boldly magnified many-fold by the long, dramatic shadows of the lamplight. He let out a tired, humoured sigh.

"Man, you're right. I'll drink to that". He nodded and drained his can.

"So, what is it? Are you sex crazy or something?"

Takeo swallowed, then chuckled hollowly.

"Oh no, Tenoh". He put his words slowly and firmly, like laying a wall brick by brick. "I like the chase. It's sport for me. A game. You start talking to a girl, play it right, keep going until you've nailed it. Score. The sleeping together bit is all part of it".

The television hummed a low jingle, announcing the colourful opening credits of a music review show. The smiling cardboard cut-out presenter was young and fresh-faced, though her lispstick grin wholly nauseating.

"So," I responded, thoughtful, "you think Michiru's cottoned on to all this?"

"She knows alright". Takeo gave me a dark passing glance, and the sofa painfully let out a low squeak as he leaned over to retrieve his third can from the plastic bag. I was quiet, and did not touch my beer. "Everyone knows at school, you'll soon find out. It's all part of my reputation. Every girl I've dated has known about it, and I always make it clear from the start. When me and Michiru started dating, I put it out straight for her. I have no secrets from her. If it all gets too much, she can end with me whenever she wants. She doesn't have to give a reason. I told her I'd even have my friends put it around school that I'd treated her bad, I mean, my reputation can take it, just so she doesn't come off looking worse from the break up and have gossip spread about her".

It took me the abyss of a moment to let my thoughts sink slowly down into the troubled pool of my mind; to organise themselves vaguely logically. In that sterile, clean gap between us, Takeo reached over to the controls and turned off the television. The lurid pantomime of neon song and dance evaporated into the dark apartment, leaving a surgical, blank screen waiting in silence.

"What did Michiru say to that?"

Takeo gave a void, sorrowing laugh.

"Of course she said she wouldn't want that. She's too sweet. She's a wonderful girl, well liked, talented. I'm lucky to have her, she's a great companion. And her will consistently surprises me".

I watched him open his new can. A fresh crackling of thin metal and, again, that tangy, smooth hiss. I waited for him to continue.

"I mean-". He took a generous swig of fresh beer. "-most girls I've dated, I've seen them deteriorate. They haven't lasted this long, they couldn't put up with it. Michiru…" he pauses, sombre, his voice deepening with the weight of his guilt pulling at his voice, "…no matter how close we are, there is plenty of her I don't know, that I never get to see. She hides so much. I can't get through to her, to know how she's _really_ feeling and do something about it. All the times she must've been hurt, it's like she just absorbed it all right up, stony and rigid. She must be full to bursting with all the shit she puts up with".

It felt as if we were camping in the clearing of a dark forest; nothing but our tiny campfire, here in the corner, to keep us alive whilst we were submerged from all sides by a secretive, thick, tar-black. Something so heavy and ancient, ready to suddenly come crashing down, like a pack of innumerable wolves, with black eyes glistening like teeth, and drown us silently out.

"I try to treat her well in every other way, but I can't help her. I don't how long this'll hold. When we were out yesterday, she was more introvert than ever". The troubled searchlight of his gaze avoided me, seeking out the darkened corners of the apartment, seeking those cold, glossy mammal eyes that would gobble us both up, as if in a scene from some macabre perversion of a child's bedtime story.

_Here is Takeo_, I thought, _who will never keep anyone because he succumbs so pliably to his own decrepit nature. And, here am I, with no one, nobody to welcome me home. How can we ever begin to think of fixing other people when we're so messed up ourselves? What can we do?_

The silence collapsed in on itself, sudden and supernova, like a grand piano being dropped a good few floors: the phone clattered and buzzed hurriedly in its cradle, shrill out from the darkness. All the bones of my spine immediately leapt to aligned, rigid attention. Takeo's eyes refocused sharply, dilating.

"Oops, phone".

I jolted up and cleared the coffee table in a skipped stride, and was swiftly over to the dining area in little more than an instant to meet the anxious plastic buzzing. I picked up the receiver and the ringing stopped.

"Tenoh".

"Oh man, Miss Haruka?" came the cheered, burly American reply.

"Is it you, Ted?" I replied in abrupt English.

I shuffled round and gave the puzzled Takeo a settling nod from the darkened corner. The wily screech of a stray car reached us from the street below.

"Sure is, kid! And it's good news".

"Oh…you mean…?"

I paused, forgetting my manners, raising my eyebrows to myself.

"Yep," said Ted, whose grin I could almost feel radiating from the handset. "It's all settled. The money's all yours. Everything fell through today!"

I almost fell over. From the darkened corner of the apartment, I grinned back out to Takeo. He looked understandably bemused, holding his arm in a frieze, halfway lifting his can to his lips in wait.

"So I need to come back over?"

"Yeah. Bummer I know, two years waiting 'round in the States and you've barely been home five minutes, but I need you here. I've booked a flight for you tomorrow, I'll fax the stuff over. It'll all take about a week or so. Sorry 'bout that".

"Nah, I don't mind too much. And cheers, Ted. I can't thank you enough".

"See you soon, kid".

I hung up.

"What was that all about?" called Takeo as I strode back across the laminate floor towards the sofa.

"I've got to go back to America to finally settle some legal-financial stuff. That was my dad's solicitor".

Takeo raised his eyebrows in apparent interest, before relaxing back and taking another swig of beer. He seemed more calmed. Like the frozen surface of a wilderness lake thawing out, so gentle ripples are free to lap fondly at the shore again. I circled the coffee table and fell back down beside him, resuming my bachelor slouch with my feet up.

"Geez, sounds heavy. Legal matters being what, if you don't mind me asking?" he inquired lazily, musing over the half-empty beer can he twirled in his hand. I took a good swig from my own.

"Inheritance". Takeo promptly looked straight at me. "My mother died almost four years ago from a series of strokes. My dad had cancer in the early stages back then, was making an easy recovery, but once she passed away, he just gave in. He let the cancer eat him up. He didn't really want to live anymore, I don't think. He died just over two years ago. My mother was Japanese, but he was an American and they'd lived in the States, so that's why I went over to America, to settle everything. Though, I really needed the time away, for myself, too. But anyway, it was really messy since he didn't bother to leave a damn will".

Takeo turned and stared at the dead television, blank.

"Woah, Tenoh. I'm sorry to hear it, about your parents". He paused, before continuing slowly, "so why are you going to America? Can't that guy just sort it out?"

I gently snorted with dissatisfaction, taking another sip of beer.

"Nope. The American legal system is nightmare. You try fending off ten distant third cousins twice-removed, all ready and armed with all-American lawyers to suck for every dollar of my dad's they can get their grubby hands on. I need to be there to sign everything off, witnessed by Ted and some other people. Luckily Teddy Harris is a great guy, fucking genius. Old family friend. It took him two years to sort this mess out, and he went at half his normal fee for me".

Takeo's mouth crisped gently into a smile.

"Sounds like a decent guy".

"Yeah, he is".

We sat in silence for a while, drinking until all the beer was gone. We discussed motor car racing after that, and I recounted all the biking I'd done in America and what a fantastic country it was for bike and car enthusiasts. We called for a pizza, and, when that came, polished it off over a conversation about Asian Horror films.

After Takeo was gone, the apartment seemed darker. As I looked out into it, I could barely make out the icy moisture, the hungry shimmer of the wolf-eyes to which we were so defenceless. They were there, curling up next to me in the bedside shadow of my sleeping form. They were following Takeo home, hurrying silently from streetlamp to streetlamp in the still night hush. _Let them wait, _I thought. They are nothing more than the silent, waiting manifestations of our lonelinesses; they are nothing more than the isolation that has faithfully accompanied since before we can remember.

And that threatened, constant as day and night, to devour us completely.

-

I open the wide lobby door, and step out into the morning. The cold strikes me, like globing sails suddenly struck by new wind. _I guess it really is autumn._

Steadily, I wind myself up for the morning, and begin to plough on down the street. The sky is grey. Lazy, stray rays of sunlight float carelessly to Earth, like the slow trails of wandering jellyfish. Even the cars seem less hurried. It is as if someone has tapped the sky and drained it completely; all is cumbersome and dull. The cold, however, is as sharp as ever.

I have been thinking about what Mr. Abe had told me. I'd been thinking ever since I left the school; I can't remember saying very much at all to the Tenoh boy. When I had got back to the apartment last night, it was only then I realised that he is the only person other than Takeo reaching out to me. I barely know him, yet, at times, in moments like when he played with me, it is as if he is wading blindly out, lost, into the churning fog and slick darkness with his searchlight, calling for me. I know what I am supposed to do, I just needed Mr. Abe to say it, unequivocally, to put it out straight for me. When such times come, I must call back. Acquaintances, polite friends, colleagues: all such shallow, wavering things. I can't survive on them; it is like trying to suck the water from one sickly brown desert plant to live. _How long can I push them away?_

Heels rap furtively on brittle concrete. One white cat-scratch of cloud barely grazes the washed-out linen of the sky. The owner of a Seafood Deli wheezes out, stretching his back, from his tinkling shop door. He slowly unwinds the creaky, stained awning, disturbing two city doves that were nestling there. They hurl themselves off in a white frenzy, scattering flickering noise like two open books thrown to the wind. Ahead of me are a cluster of First Year girls with their blue Mugen Gaken bows. I, however, will not be following them.

Here is my cliff. I must hold my nose, close my eyes, and jump.

I continue on with my haughty, swift-mannered pace, clicking briskly around a corner. My eyes note street names momentarily as I go. My gloved fingers wind snugly around the leathered handle of my violin case, engraving a warm groove in the press of my tight palm. My duffel coat whispers its smothered wool hush with each roll of my hips as I stride on. My hair shudders softly, brushing the skin of my ears. My breath quickens.

I stop.

This is the street. Five buildings down, I see a convertible waiting in a parking bay outside a modern, glass-fronted apartment building that flashes daggered light in the pale sun. I have to apologise to the Tenoh boy for my coldness yesterday evening.

Tightening my lungs into a tamed, slow rhythm, I start walking again, steadier now. My schoolcase hand reaches up to instinctively touch my hair ribbon for a moment. A couple are walking across, hand in hand, on the other side of the street from me, in the other direction. One suddenly laughs loudly, and the woman turns to lean her head on the man's shoulder. I approach the building, and see that there is a large, black gym rucksack bundled crookedly on the back seat, and the boot is open. I halt a few cars down, and wait.

After a moment or so, the Tenoh boy swings the glass doors open, with another, smaller gym bag slung over his shoulder as he strides to the car. I wait still, for he has not seen me yet, as he tosses the bag hapdash into the boot, and slams it shut before leaning into the car to reach something. His corn-blond hair shivers in the wind, restless against his forehead, tickling his perpetually-concerned brow. He turns.

"Ms. Kaioh?"

I meet his expression. He is still leaning forwards against the side of the car, legs crossed, but he is wearing black slacks and a blue shirt under his denim coat, not uniform.

"Oh, Tenoh. Hello". I take several slight paces forwards until I am a few feet from him, wry and patient, dangling off his car, eyebrows coyly raised in gentle interest. A few curtains open and blinds raise behind tinted windows in the apartment building on the opposite side of the street. He sighs, slightly chewing his bottom lip as he turns to casually scan the road with feeble disinterest, before resuming his gaze to me. He gives me the simplest of smiles, quite unexpected; maybe I look surprised or worried.

"Are you going anywhere?" I ask, nodding to the car.

"Oh," starts the Tenoh boy abruptly, straightening up with a dancing flick of his gaze to the boot. "Yes. I'm off to America. Again".

_No._

A weak grin passes his face, unwelcome.

"Why?"

It suddenly is apparent to me how rude that must've sound. My lungs coil up like two pathetic, dried-out reptiles, dead and limp in my ribcage. Something sharp bullets through my bones, as if I've been caught off guard by a sudden, violent burn. For an instant, my head is a wildfire of yelps and ricochets. Then the drowning tide of finality heaves over me, and quiet follows.

The Tenoh boy doesn't seem to mind my question, and his cheeks uncomfortably squeeze out a smile in gentle appreciation.

"I'm sorry. Just got to settle some legal stuff over there, but I'll be back in a week-ish if everything goes to plan".

I construct something polite and meaningful to ask this time round.

"What about school?"

"I've called in today. They understand. Anyway, they were informed before school began that I might have to up a leave for a while mid-term. But it's unavoidable".

He gives a sly little wave of his hand in a weak theatrical manner.

"I see". My eyes follow the maze of cracks between grey, mundane concrete paving slabs. "Good luck with your trip".

We stand politely in quiet for a few moments. Someone in an apartment on the second floor turns on the radio. Meaningless, giddy chatter dribbles down onto the street. A few buildings down, a car revs up, humming and churning as the driver peels it from the tarmac bay, and careers off down the street, the whining wheels dying away.

I look up, and see that the Tenoh boy is gazing off into space past me, his tongue working in his cheek in thought. Then his eyes slide back into focus with mine. They are a dark, sinking blue; dusty under a stray mane of boyish hair, hair that is as if it were lashed at unrepentantly even by the still, stale air of this morning. Those warm blue eyes, nestled away beneath it, are wandering searchlights, bright and seeking, closer.

In a series of seconds that, to me, are non-existent, the Tenoh boy steps towards me. He bows his shoulders, and, for a moment, places his lips faintly to my cheek. Time holds, strange but beautifully deformed. I feel that warm pressure evaporate like a ghost, but he remains there. The bridge of his nose presses into my hair, his eyes tightly, painfully shut. I can feel some unearthly ache flood into me from that briefest of contacts, and then he is gone.

The Tenoh boy withdraws to his full height. We are a foot or so apart. Those searchlights are clocking something in me. Whatever it was he found in that moment, he is suspending it, molten, but it is slipping. What is this sadness, as if trying to hold water in cupped hands?

He sighs, raising his eyebrows fondly. I cannot begin to comprehend that foreign gesture.

"See you soon, Ms. Kaioh".

I watch him briefly as he turns to stride back to his car, opening the driver's door. I, too, turn and start up slowly back down to the mouth of the street. I make my way, again, silently across the city to school.

-

I return to my apartment in the early evening, and polish off the last bottle of wine. I mean to ring and thank Bartolo. And later, to bed, where I read by pale lamplight, retreating back into my well. My cold apartment sleeps in long shadow, like the skeleton hulk of an abandoned rust-wracked ship in quiet, unhealing graveyard docks.

But this time, I am not trapped in my well. Just, for the moment, waiting, hiding.

-

_Hmm, short, I know :( but don't worry, I'll be getting underway with part-the-fourth asap (though please note I'm back at school now, so won't have as much time to write. You guys may have to wait a bit longer for updates!). Hope you all enjoyed reading this segment as much as I enjoyed writing it: I've been looking forward to that final scene! Thank you very much for reading, peace! x_


	4. Chapter 4

Heya again

_Heya again! Much thanks to reviewers of chaps 2 & 3, and thank you all for waiting patiently for the instalments! Hmm…not much else to say, really! Ah, wait, yes: everyone else seems to have a disclaimer in their stories, so I guess I ought to have one too, else I'll get sued (for about £40 max if you're lucky). Aside from Takeo (& his pals), my beloved Mr. Abe (he's my favourite :D) and any other minor characters, all characters belong to Naoko Takeuchi and anyone else who's received the rights to use them from her. i.e., not me. There. Peace! x_

-

_Oh, no. Airport again._

I felt so naked being swarmed on all sides by such a dense, bustling current of human warmth. I was so used to having my own space. But, with the airport, came the inevitable lack of personal privacy. I craned my neck over the crowds to lazily count the foam ceiling tiles, shuffling forwards uniformly, until I was huskily received by a male airport attendant who scanned my travel papers and various other bureaucratic paraphernalia with minimal enthusiasm, before casting me through the clacking metal turnstile. Pale-mint, well-buffed laminate floor tiles (which reminded me, incidentally, of the infirmary of my American elementary school), then bleak white double doors. Then, fresh air. Like a fish that had somehow escaped from its tiny pond to the sea.

The Terminal Waiting Lounge of Tokyo Airport was magnificently vast. With its huge, panoramic wall of glass, like some monolithic sunken glacier, and the giant cascading roof dizzyingly high above, a spider's web of matchstick iron girders, the building had the ominous, overwhelming presence of an Olympic stadium. And the noise was phenomenal: a fair-ground of low industrial hums, the chiming loudspeaker that resonated with a gospel-like quality, hisses, squeaks and wails of various machines, the shrill ring of tills, and wave upon wave of human chatter. Even this, such a mammoth, warehouse-like structure that seemed as if it would have the mind-boggling capacity to swallow up any amount of noise, was completely saturated with sound.

With my small gym bag over my shoulder, I made my snaking way through the crowds to get to the nearest refreshment stand. I was so painfully hungry that I was verging on nausea, and desperately needed a hot drink to settle my stomach, before I could even think about eating. After wandering about, slipping in personal silence through the stream of human traffic, I found a reasonably secluded coffee lounge in a corner, behind a duty-free perfume parlour decorated luxuriously in faux white marble and glass. The place had a few businessmen pattering keys and mulling over laptops between sips of tall lattes, and it had its own allotment of glass wall, with bruise-grey, drizzly views of the glum runway. Tiny drops of rainwater residue clung stone-still to the outside of the window, like tiny balled animals braving a winter storm, and the sky was obscured entirely by rolling, shadowed cloud that foretold of more rain to come. I strode morosely across the cheap wood-laminate floor to the counter. I could feel the bored barista's gaze trail after me.

"What can I get for you?"

I looked up, leaning against the counter with a flick of my fringe from my eyes. The barista lounged against her till, smiling coyly. Her black hair was swinging in a high ponytail and her thickly-mascara framed eyes glistened in a clearly indulgent assessment of my physique.

"Ah…just a straight black coffee for me," I drawled, delicately raising an eyebrow to her as her eyes playfully clocked mine. She raised her right hand to twist the silver stud in her small, milky earlobe between her fingers, parting her lips into an eased smile, before punching my order into the till.

"Okay, insert your credit card". She glanced up at me as I sifted through my worn wallet to retrieve my plastic card, and I caught sight of the plastic nametag that rested on her considerably large chest. _Ayumi. _She turned to get to brewing my order, hastening to add a smooth "Coming right up" as I removed my card from the machine and replaced it in my bag.

I rounded the commodities server and immediately spotted a deserted couch in the corner to settle into. I wound between islands of solitary, concentrating businessmen to chuck my bag unceremoniously beneath the marked and stained coffee table. I fell back gratefully into the couch, my feet gasping in relief from their painful tile-and-airport-carpet trek though security, and the darkly bitter aroma of smooth, grinding roasted coffee reached me from the bar. I already felt the stormy, choppy nausea bubbling in my belly being massaged gently into subsidence. The barista, Ayumi, rounded the bar with a tray in hand, and stepped precociously between tables to me.

She bent over slowly to place my tray, carrying my mug of steaming, tar-black coffee and my credit card receipt, onto the table. Her staff-issue navy-blue shirt was buttoned very low indeed.

"Here's your order". She righted herself and gave me a silky smile, biting her lip.

"Thanks". I feebly attempted a grin before she turned smartly on her heel and made her way back behind the bar.

I enjoyed the piping hot brew in silence, cupping the plain china mug in my hands gratefully. The smooth, hot liquid slid over my throat and into my stomach pleasantly, steamrolling out all unsettledness. I concentrated on its headily fragrant, bitter flavour as a substitute for thought. However, when an anonymous voice announced over the speaker, in monotones perfectly matched to the weather outside, that my flight was ready for boarding, I retrieved my gym bag from under the table and stood quietly to depart. My coffee cup sat emptily on its lonely ringed saucer, growing cold, as purposeless and impermanent as everything under that huge domed roof. As I slinked between tables, each with one or no occupants, I suddenly remembered the last time I'd been waiting for a flight.

As I crossed the highly-polished wasteland of inane, fleeting human drone, I found myself wishing that I still had that black and white photograph.

-

I sit at the breakfast bar, the same husky furrows of dusty-grey cloud as yesterday masking the sky outside. I chew slowly, leaning pensively on my elbow, as if my toast were rubber, mulling over the same blundering cityscape that I mull over every morning. Two pigeons gurgle in a bubbly slumber in the sheltered corner of the window's alcove, occasionally flustering in a fidget.

I sigh. Then yawn. Then frown, chewing my bottom lip furtively. Push my plate to one side. Sit for a moment. Still. Thought is escaping me, swirling, gaseous and elusive.

_What is going on with me?_

As I slip quietly over the under-floor hum of plumbing, my hair rustles closer to my cheeks. I make my solemn way into the bedroom to change. I lay my nightdress out precisely on the blank white sheets ready for tonight, then turn automatically to silently slide open my wardrobe with a swift prise. Clothes, waiting to attention, orderly, folded underwear stored on the top shelf, shoes in stiff pairs on the wire-mesh rack at the shadowy bottom. I dress, and still, no thought. I sit down to my dressing table, smoothing my skirt silently in my lap. The black and white newspaper clipping rests on the white-wash wooden surface of the table, folded quietly beneath a small silver trinket box, a gift from my grandmother. I take it, and study it, its wearing edges beginning to soften, now, with a shudder of a curl.

Friday. It is five days, now, since the Tenoh boy left. I meet my own eyes in the photograph, trying to remember how I felt that very moment when the sour, overweight New York photographer took it, his heavy-lidded frown resting above the camera, cigarette in his stubby hands. All these kinds of moments lie awake, each with its eyes and ears and worries and complaints, preserved perfectly. My memory is almost perfect. But each seems to echo with lonesomeness, as firm as the last and next, of the people it recalls; people who emerge, momentarily, from darkness. I try not to blink, knowing, somehow, as in the strange, abrupt physics of dreams, that the moment I do, they will disappear. But blinking is inevitable. All these insignificant, momentary friendships, scattered across the globe, decay wherever they fall to rest until there is nothing left. I wish that someone would wait here with me, undecayable, who would remain for more than a heartbeat or a blink, who, when I wake from sleeping, would still be there, staying. I open my eyes, and stare back into myself many times over in the mirror. I am still holding the picture, my fingers a little smudged from the ink.

The Tenoh boy has gone. I look again at the picture.

_But he's coming back._

Maybe, for the moment, it's me who has to remain, waiting here, staying.

_What is going on with me?_

-

I sidle between chatting students funnelling loudly down the crisp, well-polished corridor. I am trying to push against the current of uniformed people to reach my locker, when I hear a high, shallow voice call my name impatiently.

"Michiru! Michiru! Wait!"

I turn, still trying to anchor myself stoutly against the pour of traffic, to watch Motoyo, my acquaintance from my History lesson, struggle loudly to me. Within moments, she reaches me, patting down her skirt with deliberation, barely six inches from me in our island in the crowd.

"Heya," she breathes tirelessly, smiling with a glance to me as she touches her fringe with her hand, shifting the weight of her gym bag on her shoulder. I wait for her to continue, my silence her prompt. She seems quite flustered.

"I'm really sorry," she continues, flitting eyes making minute judgements about the chattering individuals filing past us. "Takeo's friends with that new blond boy, right?"

I blink. I am aware of the hard muscles in my throat.

"What, the Tenoh boy-"

"-Yes!" Motoyo clicks her fingers with a peppy snap, a grin flaring on her flushed cheeks. "That's it! Him! Anyway," she continues, idly working her tongue in her cheek, unable to keep still, "He was out running the other day, and I was wondering if you knew where I could find him, or, if not him, would Takeo-"

"-He's not here". Her fidgety actions grind to a halt and all her separate trails of attention converge promptly into staring at me.

"What?"

"He's not here. He's abroad". I stood still, holding my case defensively in front of me. I didn't want to say, or think about, for that matter, any more than that.

_Why should I?_

"Oh," she murmurs, biting her small lip, blinking in thought.

I wait, again, for her to continue. As a bell signals the end of movement-time allowance, something shudders coldly in my chest. I want her to leave. _This doesn't feel right._

"Well," she says brightly, again, looking back up to me, "that's a shame. I really wanted him to come to Athletics tryouts for our team: we've a competition fast approaching".

"That's unfortunate". I'm not looking at her.

"Are you alright?" she mutters, looking up at me, her brow knitted furtively as she scratches her elbow absent-mindedly. I can hear the distant bang of numerous lockers in the fizzing background of my thoughts, tangled with the dying sounds of students congregating to classes, disappearing behind anonymous frosted-glass doors. "Cheer up, Michiru. Junko told me you and Takeo are going out tonight anyway, aren't you?"

_Oh. That._

I raise my gaze to smile at her in appreciation, before making a small excuse to be getting away to class. Motoyo gives me a final querying look before turning on her heel with a directionless, hasty farewell, striding in hollow taps off along the mirroring, polished grey floor of the corridor. I stand for a few moments, waiting for my head to clear. Inevitability weighs me down heavily, as if I'm trying to swim away from something despite being dragged by full clothing, unable to move my weight faster, unable to maintain my current pace and pattern of life until I deal with my demons. All I can do, for the time being, is make things _here_ a little better, despite my seeming powerlessness. And wait.

-

I sit on a small table outside an Ice-Cream parlour, reading a French novel I'd neglected to finish on holiday. Late-afternoon traffic bores on behind the moving screen of hurried passers-by scurrying to and fro past me, handbags and briefcases swinging, coats buttoned right up, a bee-swarm of click-clacking heels drumming against the cold autumn concrete pavement. The overcast, cloud-swamped sky sags above me, like a soggy old duvet hung out to dry, though stray threads of pale sunlight occasionally puncture the frayed cloud, striking brazenly off car rooves or throwing blinding shards off glinting windows for a moment, but only before retreating back behind the heavy grey bog. I sit up straight in my clatter-legged silver chair under the blue café veranda, the lukewarm, tar-thick remnants of an empty cup of black coffee resting near a china bowl of sugar. Takeo is supposed to be meeting me here, but I'd decided to come a little earlier to have some time to myself outside the apartment, freshening my head.

A sudden flash of blonde hits the sunlight, like a huge split-second wave breaking on a rock.

_I've seen her before._

It is Aino Minako, the Junior High-schooler who'd sang at the Orchestral Recital. She is taking occasional slurps of milkshake from a plastic multicoloured carton, her long hair pulled up into a high, swinging ponytail, an over-sized sports jumper almost completely hiding tiny denim cut-off shorts. She is laughing and chatting to a tall brunette in green leggings, white pumps and a black sleeveless roll-neck, with the most gorgeous miniature, pink rose ear studs.

"Oh, Ms. Kaioh!"

I sweep my gaze back to the Aino girl, who, smiling and waving to me with one hand, grabbing her friend with her other to halt her. When the tall girl rights herself and follows the other girl's gaze to me, her face immediately breaks into a warm grin of sudden recognition.

"Good afternoon, Ms. Minako".

The girls swiftly round the other tables outside the bustling parlour and I stand to bow my shoulders to them.

"Mako, this is the First Violinist, remember, from the recital?" coos the Aino girl, indicating me with an admiring sweep of her hand.

"I do, you were amazing, Ms. Kaioh!" her friend flushes, bowing to me. "Kino Makoto," she continues, adjusting the strap of her drawstring purse in a seemingly habitual manner. The Aino girl turns her head sideways to begin saying something to the Ms. Kino as they take a seat opposite me, and my mind is suddenly jerked into a reeling jolt of déjà vu.

"Were you at the Arcade on Sunday, talking to Tenoh Haruka?" I ask abruptly. Ms. Minako looks round to me, bemused a little.

"Yeah, with Tsukino Usagi, we were. We saw you there with Hideyoshi Takeo," she smiles, "I meant to greet you, but you left quite quickly".

"Oh".

Ms. Kino shifts in her seat, a bit confused, and turns to retrieve a cell phone from her purse. The Aino girl sighs, sinking into a small smile as she rests her head on her hand, twirling a slithering strand of silky blonde hair.

"Mr. Haruka was really great, wasn't he? Did you see, Ms. Kaioh?"

"Yes," I murmur pensively, my tongue resting thoughtfully against my teeth as my eyes slip in and out of focus. I rest my hands in my lap, twisting at each other, playing with my silver ring. "Yes he was".

"Ms. Kaioh?"

I lift my line of vision sharply back up to the Aino girl, blinking. Makoto Kino is chewing her pretty rosy lip over the laminated drinks menu, dark brows tense in thought. Ms. Minako, however, is smiling coyly at me, sly corners of her mouth cocked and ready.

"Yes?"

"I know it isn't really much of my business, but do you _like_ him? Tenoh Haruka?"

The Aino girl's face is flooded with a wide smile, eyes glittering in full attention. I rest my hands to stone stillness in my lap, draping a heavy robe of composure over and around me, forcing a raised eyebrow. The matte cotton of my dress rustles quietly.

"Well, he seems very civil and polit-"

"-aah, that's not what I _mean, _Ms. Kaioh!" smiles Minako, her face alight. The Kino girl's face is turned reclusively to her lap, quite flushed.

"Ms. Kino are you alright?" I hasten smartly to ask. Her head resurfaces, and she places an uncertain palm to her cheeks. The Aino girl squeals delightedly, startling a young couple sharing a milkshake at the table next to us.

"Oh, Mako, you like him, don't you?" she gushes divinely, accosting her friend with giggles.

"Well, Mina, I…um…"

"Oh, Mako! You're so crush prone!"

"I know, but-"

"-but he is_ such___a cool guy! You should talk to him!"

A pliant, pleasant warmth bubbles inside my chest and I smile a little. A group of elderly women huddled around a selection of tea and cream biscuits raise their eyebrows, shuddering and bumbling in stubborn, mumbled disapproval. A child hurrying along the street with his flustered mother stops abruptly to gape at the giggling pair of girls before being chivvied on. City birds scuttle and coo between the forest of warm shifting, rocking legs on the patio of the café, scavenging jerkily for stray crumbs.

"Michiru? Michi?"

I slide round in my awkward silver chair to see Takeo raising his head over the crowd to scout for me.

"I'm here, Takeo!" I call gently as he writhes between the living funnel of human bodies streaming loudly on to skirt the balustrades marking the perimeter of the café. The two girls immediately halt their charade of shrill giggles as they clock Takeo approaches us steadily across the crowd.

"Oh my," breathes the Aino girl, clasping Ms. Kino's shoulder, "There he is! The other boy I told you about". The Kino girl's eyes glitter, inspired and fixated. She turns to me politely.

"Is that your boyfriend, Ms. Kaioh?"

"Yes, he is," I reply simply and tonelessly, pushing my hair quietly from my face, straight-backed.

"He's really well-known for his sports, even some girls at our school have crushes on him, though he rarely even comes there".

The girls continue to gaze, entranced, as he sidles discretely between silver chair backs. He reaches us and immediately runs an automatic hand through his messy shag of askew, fluffy black hair. He straightens out his charcoal-grey suit with a small tug as he leans round to kiss me lightly on the cheek with a smiled greeting of "Hey, 'Chiru". The two girls' faces melt into alert adoration, fingering buttons or hair slides with silently bubbling impatience. Takeo uncoils to his full athletic height, casting the girls a quick grin and bowing his broad swaggering shoulders, hands in pockets, introducing himself. The two meekly reply, biting their lips.

"Are you the Junior High girl who sang at the concert?" asks Takeo quizzically, raising his brow, unsure.

"Yeah, with my friend Hino Rei," breathes the Aino girl, eyes wide as a deer caught in headlights, shifting her hands in her lap. I catch Takeo quickly glance at her bare crossed legs as he smiles to her politely.

"Ah, then I guess you know Michiru from the concert". Ms. Minako throws the Kino girl a frightfully excited glance, before replying civilly, trying to steady her quivering voice. I lean back, poised in my chair, enjoying the conversation, before Takeo indicates to me with a smooth nod that it's time to be going. I glance darkly to him in return.

"Well," I murmur, unfolding slowly from the chair and smoothing out the drape of my dress, "we have a reservation to stick to, girls".

A brief disappoint flashes momentarily across the girls' faces, but they promptly smile and rise from their chairs, giggling in relish and waving enthusiastic goodbyes.

"See you soon, Ms. Kaioh!" they call as they file between chairs. Takeo silently lifts my coat onto my shoulders as I slip a folded note under the cold coffee cup. Hands in pockets, glancing out from under his dark fringe, he waits for me to make my way round the table wordlessly before following me from the café. The evening is beginning its quivering descent, striking up a fresh, cold blueness in the air and dragging lazy autumn breezes along the sharply-rapping click-clack concrete. The dusk eases into Tokyo, like a parent eases an exhausted child to bed, hazy and cumbersome. The edges round patches of shadow begin to fray and leak away into each other, and, at the dimming impression of sunlight suffocated more and more behind steadily blueing clouds, darknesses darken as they bleed into one another. It is the very end of the rush hour, and cars strike up distinctive growling cries as they round corners and flash under bridges. Other people pass us frequently, chatting or humming or musing to themselves, pace leisurely. Takeo is wordless as he paces coolly alongside me, glancing at me with continual attentiveness. The roads trickle away and the mechanised, bright, sickly tableaus of peppy shop windows are switched more and more for sleek, conspicuous residential apartment buildings, as he leads me out of town. A burly, coarsely-browed boy who I recognise as being on Takeo's American Football team gives Takeo a dark, sick grin, raising his hand in passing greeting. Takeo removes his hand from his pocket, and gently reaches to clasp mine. I let him take it, wrapping his fingers tightly round mine like an infant. His palm is very warm.

"Where are we going, Takeo?" I ask in a voice with a distinctly numb, quiet pallor. I reach with my free hand to pull my coat up round my neck as the air begins to settle in coolly. Takeo glances to me with a grin.

"It's a surprise, 'Chiru," he gleams, "I was very careful in choosing it, so I hope it cheers you up a bit".

I say nothing, instead tracking the pavement in front of my feet as we walk. The daylight has been swept away, insubstantial as dust, in one shivering, wintery heartbeat. Venus is peering out gorgeously from behind the sheer veil of a whispy cloud, before dimming mysteriously again. We turn at the croakily rusting railings above a concrete viaduct that feeds into a small canal, and Takeo leads me carefully down some cranky, decrepit iron-gauze steps that threaten, rickety, to buckle under me, half sleeping in a long early-evening shadow. We reach the lower level at the canal side, and make our way parallel to the still waters. A pleasant red-brick path, with slight flashes of weeds and grass budding in small, fresh hope about rusted moorings or between aged cracks, leads us along down from the city-street level. A solemn, thickly bracken-wracked row of dark trees obscure the residential buildings on the other side with scratchy black denseness. A little light laps and gulps fleetingly on the stirred surface of the deep canal waters near us, but the other half of the canal's width is cast under long, twisted shadows of the copses on the far side. The water there coils and stirs silently, barely moving, black and thick as tar and swallowing all light, instead of reflecting it. We continue on our evening path, and a pale breeze grates hoarsely at the dead branches of the undergrowth on the other side. My heels' rapping fills the silence of still water like small rhythmic firecrackers, a metronome for the quiet. Eventually, the canal picks up, sloping gently, and we reach the street level once more. The sky has been plunged into a surging tropical pool of brilliant Caribbean-blue, dyed deeply and fiercely; the bluest of blues, the electric colour of the bold building blocks and toys for nursery children. The cloud has dispersed reasonably, and grey hazes soften patches of azure sky. High up over the canal, the buildings of many charming, characteristic leisure businesses (restaurants, arcades, speciality shops), of the bohemian old-town style precinct of Tenth District grace the bottom floors of wonderfully mismatched bricked apartment buildings. Worn, old awnings, softly flapping out in the evening air, over-spilling clusters of colour-dotted wildflowers hanging in baskets on outside walls, next to winking wrought-iron sconces, all stir and twinkle beneath the evening sky. Couples laze out on mosaic tables out the front of cafés, smoking quietly. I am intrigued.

"Here we are," winks Takeo to me gently, before leading me by the hand towards the open French doors of a cosy candlelit restaurant. The large, baying windows of the front of the building are framed with shutters of peeling olive-green paint, and splitting grey-wooded tubs cascading with eccentric dappled mix of petals stand guard at the door. We enter, and it is warm inside, with many worn Middle-Eastern rugs askew over the smoothed terracotta floor and candles burning with lazy, drunken flickers at dark wooden tables, occasionally catching a glint of polished set cutlery waiting in place. It is a third or so full, and a bright young waitress immediately greets us, asking Takeo for the name of his reservation and taking our coats to hang on the grand old wooden coatstand next to the service station. She then leads us down into the restaurant, to a cosy table in a warm alcove across from the gently cackling fireplace. There are a few couples to either side of us, leaning in in conversation or silently sampling full plates of rich, aromatic food. She gracefully presents the open wine list to Takeo, before laying our open menus before us and asking whether we'd like a bottle of sparkling or still mineral water. Takeo silently studies the wine list, leaning his head to his palm. I scan the restaurant with interest, but not quite letting the low buzz of chatter fully penetrate my mind and soothe my thoughts into a lazy meditation. The clay-pink rendered walls are cluttered full of endless vintage posters, paintings and general bric-a-brac: wartime beverage adverts, opera posters and record covers from every era, newspaper clippings from anytime in the last 50 or so years, and bright gouache paintings of various landscapes, to name but a few. A husky Italian songbird trills a melancholy post-war ballad over the scratchy speakers, mingling with the background chatter of the restaurant clientele, and muffled clanking noises and the odd shout from the kitchen down the other end of the room.

"Do you like it here?" Takeo asks, looking up, brows raised in question, from the wine list as I bring my gaze back round to face him.

"It's very unusual. I didn't think there were places like this in Tokyo".

Takeo smiles, folding the wine list and laying in gently to one side on the scratched, worn old tabletop.

"It took me a while to find it," he murmurs, the candlelight basking his face with a slurred, jumpy orange glow. I wait for him to continue. I notice how much more pensive and reserved Takeo seems when not around his friends, though not in a defensive way, but in a more thoughtful, careful sort of way. He turns in his seat to remove his jacket, and then returns to face me, rolling up his shirt cuffs to bare his sports-tanned, nicely-toned forearms.

"You seemed a bit down recently. I thought maybe you were missing being back in Europe, so I thought this might cheer you up".

I push a smile to the forefront of my defences.

_Well, I am pleased with how thoughtful he's being._

"This place has been run for almost 40 years by this Italian couple who came here at the end of the 60s," he muses, tapping his empty glass with his fingertips. "I did really well to find it".

I stare at him blankly as he adjusts his tie and checks his phone, then the waitress comes with our water, taking our drinks order. She clacks smartly away, ponytail swinging, to clear some plates on a table a little further from us. She seems to be managing the front of house all by herself.

"Takeo".

He looks up from his phone, sliding it back into his trouser pocket. He squats his elbows onto the table, leaning forward to me, though not touching me. There is an invisible veneer than keeps us apart with some sort of strange magnetism born from the personal rifts that are creaking wider in both of us.

"You okay?"

His black eyes hover, candlelight cradling them, like the sun catching the tin underbelly of some dark satellite. I am about the open my mouth to slowly construct an answer, but the waitress arrives, smiling, with a bottle of white wine nestled in her slim hands. Takeo nods, and she pours him a small glassful. He lifts it smartly to his nose, with a passing glance to me, before draining it with another silent nod. The waitress fills my glass, then his, and twists the bottle lightly in her strong hands to place it squarely on the table, before taking our food orders. We are still resting in quiet after she has left, and I sense Takeo wanting me to continue. Impatient as ever, he prompts me.

"Is it something to do with school, someone in school causing trouble?"

I glance back up to him. His mouth is parted, hands tight.

"No, it's not like that, please don't worry".

He thinks for a moment. The current track on the old speakers draws to a finale, and a new, more upbeat tune pipes up.

"Of course I'm worried".

I say nothing and raise my glass to my lips.

"Please tell me, Michi," he continues. He is not pleading, nor is he flat and blunt. He really is worried. "You're one of my closet friends, but I can never understand you, babe. I can never tell what's going on in your head".

I pause for a moment, sucking on my lip as I hold a mouthful of wine, before swallowing slowly.

"I'm sorry, Takeo".

He bites his lip, eyes darting to and from me.

"I don't want you to be sorry, I mean, that's who you are. You work that way. You're quiet. I dunno, I don't get you at all, but I don't want you to behave in any particular way differently or deliberately. Please don't think that. I don't want you to be a different person on my account".

I gently place the wine glass back on the surface of the rugged table top, then take my time in withdrawing my hand back up to rest under my chin. Only then do I look at him. The flickering antique wall sconce above him buzzes a low orange behind the stained glass, lending a faint orange halo to each askew strand of his crown of jet-black hair. This time, he suggests the problem, the problem which I can feel him begging in his head, _please, don't let it be this._

"Is it the party I went to the Saturday night before the recital?"

We rest there for a moment. Whether that silence was a necessary or an uncomfortable one was unimportant and irrelevant. It was there, pressing at us both, as a shrill Italian opera diva rang with unearthly, swaying potency over the age-old, crackling speakers.

"Why, did something happen at this party?" I barely move my lips, barely breathe, regulating every body function to be without pitch or dimension or in the least bit questionable. Takeo sits up straighter, seeming uncharacteristically aware of his body language towards me. This change is unnatural and very disconcerting.

"Yes, it did. I'm not pretending it didn't, I'm s-"

"I know," I whisper, glancing down. He doesn't badger me nor make to continue or strain, but waits for me. "Who was she?"

He pauses for a moment, and I almost am convinced that maybe he doesn't even know her name, before he carefully constructs the simplest and most honest of answers.

"Nayu".

"Satoh?"

"Yes".

We sit there for a while, waiting for nothing, urging nothing. I remember the last time me and Takeo went out together, before the end of the academic year. He never stopped laughing nor smiling, talking and idolising me. He took me to a special, expensive Japanese-style restaurant whose speciality was the preparation of Eel. After, we walked through the park and visited the fairground there, where we walked amongst the schoolchildren, going on rides, before we took the bus out of town. He took me to a small shrine to the north of Tenth District, and we walked up the stone steps hand in hand. We drew our fortunes there under a tall birch tree, and Takeo bought me a tiny charm for 'Health'. He told me I didn't need one for 'Academic Success' or 'Acquisition of Wealth', as I was such a star, and as long as I had him I didn't need luck for 'Love'. I told him that you can never have enough luck. He held me, laughing, under that tree.

The waitress eventually brings our meals, setting them before us on mismatched place-mats, steaming, richly-smelling plates wafting, piping-hot, with aromatic Italian flavouring. Takeo slowly picks up a fork, glancing to me warily as if he worries I will disapprove of him lifting his cutlery, before breaking a tiny flake of steaming pink meat from his salmon steak. I wait there, letting him eat for a bit before I make an uneasy start to my seafood spaghetti. I know the food is delicious, the textures and mixture of flavours exquisite, but I enjoy my dish very little.

"Are you angry at me? Please be honest, I really want to know". Takeo is holding his fork halfway to his mouth, looking down at it, his hair falling in front of his brow, obscuring his eyes. He speaks in a small way that makes me feel a little bit shameful.

"No. I'm not".

"Okay".

Takeo continues to eat, taking slow, calculated movements that seem tiring to maintain, like an astronaut moving on the surface of the moon. My own food goes down like medicine, so I leave it. A large party of 12 or so arrives at the door, laughing and cajoling as they all remove their rugged coats and comb their windswept hair back into submission with their fingers. The sky outside has sunk into a very deep blue, a thick, dark swamp overhead. The candle light of the tables in the windows suspends warm, vapourous projections of astral diners who hover just beyond the walls of the building in the evening darkness. I remember the slippery, silver limbs of the birch tree that shivered in the summer courtyard of the shrine, adorned with a perfect green veil. I was happy, in some small way. Nothing has changed. Takeo sleeps with girls now, and slept with them then.

_I'm just a little braver now to acknowledge things._

I don't want to ignore or pretend anymore.

Takeo puts down his fork, leaving half his salmon.

"Takeo".

"Yes?"

He looks me in the eye, holding my gaze in a quietly searching way. The tips of his front teeth gently tug on his bottom lip, furrowing and needy. He leans back into his seat, listening to the silence that stirs underneath the music and laughter and chatter of the restaurant, like a creature stirring on the ocean floor.

"Do…did you think I'd always be with you?"

He stops chewing his lip and just lets his mouth hover, slightly parted, caught gently off-guard. His eyes waver, frail under his brows.

"I always hoped so".

The waitress meanders over to us, just having finished a merry conversation with the booming party in the corner, cheeks flushed. She asks us if everything's okay, and her voice and smile slow off, trickling to a halt, as she senses the atmosphere that has frosted over us, and mutters that she'll come back later.

"Takeo?" I wait, after she has left us.

"I knew you wouldn't, though, I think".

"Do you think it's because of you?"

"Yes".

I finish off my glass of wine, rolling the cool, pressing surface of the clear neck between my fingers pensively, though my mind is, for the moment, blank. Takeo turns his sleeves over to touch his cufflinks in a delicately habitual manner, though he still watches me, his eyes studying mine, my nose, my hair, my neck, my lips and hands, as if trying to burn them onto his memory. He must be hurting. _But I don't care, it doesn't affect me._ Because only the people you care about, the things they do and their fates, can really hurt you. I have so many secrets from Takeo: he doesn't know me, though he tries, to help ease it all. All possibilities of empathy are numbed away. _Why am I so cold?_

"Please don't put the blame to yourself," I say, forming steady words with each slow twirl of my glass. "I'm not such a good person myself".

I watch his eyes harden by each passing moment, though they still reach out to feel each rise and cavity of my features with frail tenderness. His plate sits, lukewarm, on his mat, pathetically unmoving. I am so awful for my indifference to him. I wish I weren't. The lights dim in their dirty brass sockets as a cosier mood settles in the restaurant as the sky outside darkens still. The hissing speaker pours out slower, more woeful songs as the evening eases into night. The warm shadows are thrown up dark and longer against the walls, and the chatter in the restaurant softens.

"You don't love me". It isn't a question. Takeo's eyes fall to rest back on his plate. I see him glance to the waitress across the restaurant to come and clear our table. My hands fall to rest in my lap, and squeeze at each other gently. I blink hard.

"I wish this wouldn't hurt you this much".

"There you go then".

I look up, sudden, to meet Takeo's eyes, watching me surely, as the waitress silently glides over to our table, and the fire almost dies out in the grate.

"Even if, only a little bit… only a good person would say something like that, I think," he murmurs, resting his fingers on the tables. He slips a quiet word to the waitress for the bill as she sweeps our untouched plates cleanly from the table. As Takeo's eyes seem to sink away under the dimming old candelabras, darkly glowing orange, I remember how I'd stand to say goodbye to him after school as he mounted his motorbike in the fresh summer afternoon, girls gazing as they walked by in clusters.

"_See you tomorrow, 'kay?"_

"_Okay"._

"_Love you, Mimi"._

In my head, Takeo grins with a wink as he slaps down his helmet visor, and his motorbike wails, screeching off wildly, flying away, far away, further and further until absorbed into a steady hum of traffic, completely gone: a low, funeral rumble that plays on an uncertain loop in my head, reawakening from a lost time.

I begin to mention the bill, but Takeo raises a hand to cut me off. The enchantment of silence is broken by the waitress bringing the credit card machine. My imagination stirs, heavy and lethargic like a headful of treacle, slurring sleep tugging at my mind. But sleep can't soften the little gaps in my heart. Takeo glances up at me.

"_I love you, Michiru"._

-

Takeo has gone, round the corner of the street, the tapping of his path faded away. It is quite late, but the deserted lobby of my apartment building is completely, blankly lit for the juxtaposition of no one. I silently open the glass door and intrude on the whitewash UV silence with the high roll of my marble click-clack footsteps. Everything is dubiously sterile-still as I wait for the elevator, and my heartbeat hurries it on, hurrying the faceless metal doors to open, as if I'm playing chase. Everything beyond the foyer in the dark street is obscured by the hovering doppelganger of the deserted lobby that is sketched out, vapourous, with a pale ghostliness in the glass window that fronts the building. The silent elevator doors part cleanly, and I wait in a fresh funeral stillness to arrive at my floor. I lean against the cool metal handrail and, for a moment, remember the seafront quay of the Sardinian village. _What was the name of that place? That village…the name, the name…_ The elevator sweeps to a steady halt, and the doors open. The low plumbing hum of the uncannily windowless corridor, with its uniform doors, materialises, uneasy, like an expressionless child in his Sunday best standing to attention, eyes blank. Something is dislocated from everything else: two forced pieces of a jigsaw. The kindergarten-red carpet wars with my sleep-drunken eyes as I pace along to my door on the left hand side, and a flickering light bracket flashes at me like a torch from the bottom of a well. I count numbers on doors. _Here we go._ My key clicks in the lock, tumblers groaning, and the metal handle clunks. I am very aware of the volume of this noise, looking for my chase playmate who isn't there.I am the only person on this floor, surely. _Yes._ Each apartment is deserted, on this floor, on every floor, and I am the only person in the whole building, this whole building that is quivering like a ghost with the terminal drone of waiting plumbing and dormant electrics and every corner bleached with this one, great all-devouring surgical light and filled with the sheep-skull-rattle echoes of my own footsteps chasing each other, round and round like eyes in a room full of mirrors.

I shut the door quickly behind me. I sigh, rattling deeply, hoarse.

_I feel crazy. I have to clear my head._

I lean against the cool white-paint wood of the door, listening to the pale metronome of the kitchen clock click in the hollow room. There are no lights on, and all I can see is a white square of light that is draped awkwardly on the silent dining table like a white sheet, still. The peppering of star-like city lights swim and twinkle in the deep blue just beyond the indistinguishable black mass of the kitchen units, gradually bringing out cleaner, sharper lines in this unlit environment as my eyes adjust, like a blurred picture coming into focus. The whole space has the ethereal alien veneer and the flowing shadows of an aquarium, swimming in a subterranean darkness. My heartbeat is much, much calmer now, settling as I sink into my couch. Things flutter gently in the strange pressure outside the glass-tank apartment windows; small shapes sway in and out of the ribbons of light that find their way down onto the dark gravity of my apartment floor from the surface far above. They break the light with long black shadows like schools of silvering fish, slipping in and out of each tick of my clock. I am feeling acutely relaxed, a bizarre, medicinal relaxation which strikes me as obscurely unnatural. I feel like I should call Takeo, but I know that if I open my mouth to speak, no noise will come out, only a bubbling abstraction of some broken fragment of speech lost to the world. The stirring, shadowy pressure of the black seabed of my apartment crushes out all sound. I feel compelled to think and extract some sort of conclusive feeling from the simmering knot of melancholy in me. Every watery break of light seems awash with promise and mystery. I am feeling, strangely, compelled further yet.

-

Everything about the night is freezing concrete-smooth: sharp pinpricks of stars and the piercing tang of night air that bleaches my lungs. The operatic wails of motorbikes. I shift weight gently form foot to foot, blankly waiting at the sterile, deserted bus stop for the midnight bus. I clutch my bag with a reverent anxiousness soothed with dilute exhaustion. My body clearly doesn't have a clue what to do with itself. The sky is soaked with the stickiest black ink, the basin of the entire heavens loaded with a tiny smattering of stars, all choked by greedy, thick blackness. Nevertheless, they swim with a lustrous sheen.

_What am I doing?_

I glance morosely about me: the streets are like a deserted Hollywood film set. It is cold, and all the lights out. Streetlights cast expectant spotlights down to the still pavement, waiting for nothing to break their lumbered, constant, buzzing beam. A small black cat with a little red collar brushes airlessly over the opposite pavement, glancing to me, before pattering softly up some worn stone steps to sidle through the old cat flap of a townhouse. With a coiling flourish of a small black tail, it has slipped away and I am again left in peace in the bright, hard air of midnight. My breath forms little warm ghosts in front of me, before dissolving into the clear cold. As I shudder and pull my coat tighter round me, I hear a peaceful rumble accumulate steadily, nearing me from many blocks away in the still night.

As I breathe in deeply, the rumble of the night bus rounds the end of the street, bold white searchlights stretching out in front of it like feelers in the cold night. The large white bus smoothes to a halt in front of me, and its doors fold quietly open, spilling the warm amniotic flood of its internal lights out onto the icy grey midnight pavement. The middle-aged driver turns his sleepy face to watch me as I step deftly onto the bus. Inside, it is very warm and bright, the low buzzing lights flickering neon orange over the empty seats, the soft, pliant rumble of the waiting engine cushioning the air. The are only two other people on the bus: two older men, sat in silence next to each other, in jeans and black jackets, smoking tiresomely, an enchanted look freeze-framing their sloping, unshaved faces. The driver gives me a low smile as I place change in the scratched, clattering metal tray. He scoops it up into his stubby browned fingers, and hands me my torn ticket. On his dashboard are a fewer bumper stickers for various destinations in Japan, New Zealand and Malaysia, as well as worn photographs of what I assume to be his relatives, wife and children. I take an empty seat towards the back of the bus. The doors fold silently shut and the driver heaves a gear change. I lean my forehead against the cold sheen of the scratched window, cooling my pressed skin.

The bus rumbles louder, churning up speed as it steadily traverses the midnight street to the cross-roads at the end. I look out the window. In it, I see the spectral suspension of the wavering inside of the bus, mirrored, shivering breathlessly. Bright orange patches are sharp and fierce, overlaying the dark moving street outside with a hovering ghostliness, but the darker corners and extrusions of the twin, mysterious landscape of this other bus are lost to blackness. Michiru looks back to me, barely there she is so dark, the translucent veil of her silky-black skin only just distinguishable from the cold road that shudders along outside. But the orange hiss of light that settles to bathe on the swimming surface of her eyes dances back to me, clear and rounded, communicating. The bus speeds up and slows down gently, rising in gentle ebs and flows along the smooth cold earth of the night streets. I see the black shadow of the moving bus slip silently in and out of empty midnight shop windows, like a shark swimming in and out of blurred weeds in dark waters.

Nevertheless, I am calmer now. I remember how I panicked returning to my apartment.

_It's strange not having Takeo._

I remember the last date we went on, when I met him at the arcade. I remember the Tenoh boy's face in profile, hearing nothing of his smiling, moving, living mouth through the swelling sea of noise that seemed to fill every cavity of my body there. And how I wanted his bright eyes, changing and ushering in the restless flare of orange light, to turn to me. His dark brow, gently questioning, and the strange effeminate softness of his round jaw. And the wry, curious smile of his pink, infantile mouth.

The bus heads North-West, rolling comfortably further of town, wheels grinding low grumbles in the quiet of the midnight outside. We pull up to a gentle halt outside a library. The two men stand up, and I look out to the black, deserted shell of the building, all lights out inside. The men descend from the bus, stopping to turn to each other as they step down to the brisk bus stop in the cool night air. As we pull away from them, I can see their mouths moving slightly as they say something indefinable to one another from afar. Then, we round a corner, and they are gone. I turn slowly back to gaze out of my window, and can see the rising black of the tree-speckled temple hill brimming over the apartment blocks and sleeping residential suburbs of houses. The streetlights blink past in steady Morse-code, blanking and ballooning soft pools of cold synthetic orange on the hard deserted pavement of the streets. Someone out on a bike flashes past in the opposite direction, down a road full of terraced residential family homes with clean, nondescript rendered walls high over small front gardens and concrete drives with uniform sleeping cars.

And again, from my mind's pool rises the image, the smell of the Tenoh boy, blurred just below the shivering surface until emerging, clear, stealing my breath. His tall, slender back, folding to his full height to gaze comfortably at me, not letting one thing slip. Biting his lip pensively. And the press of his brow into the crown of my hair, trying, somehow, to soak up something, and pushing for something to soak through into me. That moment tugged and strained, but wasn't quite released. Between us came that monsoon, once more, swelling up the river banks, trying to burst. He carries himself with an ironic, softly-sly discreteness, calculated and masculine, but I am drawn to this strange tenderness in him: the pliant, eased languidness of a prepubescent girl. His jeans hung off the fleshy bulge of his hips as his walked to the piano, before seating himself with a casual deftness to rest his neat fingers on the smooth keys.

I open my eyes. We are rolling, now, past individual homes with still smatterings of dark ivy nestling to the sleeping night-time walls. The deep, sweet smell of him rushes back to me at once with that dark, searching look, holding those flashes of sudden, intimate eyes that reflect a thousand times before that moment is extinguished. The film reel is looping again and again in my head: that look, urging until breaking point as he leans in the soft frame of his shoulders to press his lips to my cheek, and then gone.

A thousand times, fleeting first, then, once more, gone.

Bitter-sweetly, over and over.

How far is America?

_This is crazy._

Now, trees disperse the houses, shadowy gatherings of black undergrowth indistinguishable by faint starlight. A dark carpet of black grass, stirring barely in the midnight chill, brims the cold pavement flashing by. Streetlamps are sparser. The slowing road rounds on itself, meandering from the foot of the hill. We flash past the stony entrance of the old temple, two stone lanterns bubbling flickering luminescence over the craggy, worn old stone steps, casting long orange shadows of mossy undergrowth up the red gate entrance. The bus pulls to a slow halt across from a lonely bus stop standing silently in front of a dark patch of trees that shields it thickly from a residential cul-de-sac slumbering just beyond. Through the twisted, black limbs of dense trees, I can see the fading orange twinge of a distant bedroom window.

The metal doors fold open once more. I ease myself up from the harsh-backed metal-rimmed seat, and stride down the hard walkway to the front of the bus. The driver gives me a small nod, and I step quietly down the metal steps and onto the cool concrete pavement. The brisk air of twilight catches me once more. The doors swish shut behind me, and the engine simmers up again, the bus rolling forward, picking up speed. I turn, pulling my coat closer to my neck, to watch the orange glow of the bus rumble quietly along the road, speeding away between dark rows of trees until it fades completely into the night. The cold air makes me strangely away of the tautness of my lungs with newfound iciness, and a fresh smattering of stars vaguely distinguish the black heavens from the black walls of bulky trees that isolate the road from the city, and continue up the other side up the slope of the hill. I start walking again with renewed alertness, awake, counting each swiftly-placed footstep along the untouched concrete. My eyes quiver on ahead of me, watching for a break in the glinting of streetlamp-light off stirring black leaves that will mark the mouth of the path to lead me up the hill. I pace on, duffel coat high on my neck, each breath like a deft painter's-stroke of cloudy warmth suspended momentarily before me. The narrow road is still, the odd leaf skittering across it in the stillness of night. The road continues to curve round the base of the hill into the trees until it is obscured from sight.

I can almost imagine the Tenoh boy's empty, silent car parked sleeping up on the pavement. I begin to let this fantasy carry my thoughts when my awareness crashes and stumbles back to reality as my eyes glance by chance upon the extrusion of some metal railing amongst the trees. I near it, and see that a wiggling series of steps, jittering to-and-fro up the hill as if someone had half-heartedly cast them there, snake up the hill between the trees.

I turn to look back behind myself down the desolate road, the dark shapes of houses hiding like children behind the forlorn, twisted undergrowth on the other side. Pressing a cold palm against the metal railing, I lift my foot and start up the concrete steps. I steadily heave my half-slumbering fleshy weight up each step: they are quite steep and seem quite old. A dark, indefinable layer of skeleton leaves hide the very edges of the steps, which are flanked on both sides by tall trees, densely enshrouding the hill in a thick coat of brambled twilight undergrowth. I work my way up the steps further, pushing on, my right hand clutching my bag as my left grasps the cold handrail.

I wonder when the last time was that anybody had used these steps. Gentle, bubbling, sleepy noises of nocturnal animals trickle out from the dark trees, calling and singing softly, lullabying in the star-punctured darkness. I look into the deep belly of the forest to my left: it is indistinguishably dark, all has receded into shadow, yet something in me can calculate some definable, palpable depth to its blackness. I wonder if some of the small creatures within it ever sit at the topmost canopies of the trees to see the stars. It is in this moment that I, myself, notice the clarity with which I can see the steps before me, yet there are no streetlamps.

_Surely the stars aren't bright enough?_

I look up as I push on up the old concrete steps, and for the first time tonight I see the moon: a full, porcelain moon hangs swinging in the sky, outshining the many stars that court it from all sides with a beaming whiteness, blank, distant and deep. I hammer on up the steps by moonlight, the air stirring cold as metal as I disturb its twilight settling amongst the trees. The steps continue, wiggling a vaguely upward path, hacking and slicing hastily between trees that rustle with nocturnal hum, despite which a pleasant silence still lies peacefully, enchanting all things at this hour. I reach to brush my hair back behind my ear, when I glance a thinning in the darkness of the trees to my left, a clearing closing in on the steps from just beyond them. I press on in the night, glancing to my left occasionally as I wind up the hillside between the flanks of trees slumbering in blanket darkness.

However, the density of the forest begins, too, to thin out, as the moonlit outlines crooked limbs of trees, sharpening now, distinct, and, eventually, the end of the steps come into sight up ahead. A few young trees now palely obscure the space to my left, just blurring the gaps there with a web of twisted, spindly branches hang with raggedy clumps of dank, leafy undergrowth like the corpse of tattered old black umbrellas. With a few more forced, upward-driven steps, faintly with quickened breath, I reach the top of the steps, and break out onto the open, clear grassy hilltop.

To my left, there is an opening in the trees wide enough to allow a car. I stride round to look down it, to see its is overgrown and littered with dark detritus and various man-made decay: the old splintered sides of rotting wooden crates, green bottles glistening with cold midnight dew, a broken cassette tape. All these, and the soot-black tangle of deep forest, are swallowed up by the depth of the hill, and the overgrown old driveway is dusted away into shadows as I look down. Before turning to start up over the very crest of the hill, I glance back down the higgledy steps that hack and wind skittishly down into moon-glinted blackness, and the shadowy hum of slumbering, bubbly nocturnal activity. The long grass in moist against my icy ankles, and my heels sink gently into the dank earth. It is so dark I cannot make out the ground, but press on up to the top of the hill. As I stride on, the vapourous orange glow of the city, like the ghost of a great forest fire just over the break of the hill, crowns the hill. It is so faint at first, I am unsure whether I am imagining it or not, and then, clearer, like the pale red-blood-vessel glow in the womb from the outside world, a soft, assured beacon that snatches the sharp silhouette of dewy grass with glittering blades of orange and white, accompanied by the ever-blossoming moonlight.

I round the top of the hill, and the twinkling cityscape, a mirror to the glittering heavens, explodes over the deep midnight horizon: a geometric parade of criss-crossing webs of Christmas-tree lights, yellow, orange, white, pink, fidgeting and winking brightly as far as I can see. The whole city cuddles close to the earth, shivering with endless scattered lights in pockets, lines, dancing clusters, as if stars had been sprinkled down, like tiny luminous snowflakes, from the deep, inky indigo of the twilight heavens. Against the sparkling night time city is the clean silhouette of a decrepit platform.

Ploughing on through the cool grass, I make my way to, as he had said, the deserted foundations of an old house. I pick my way through moss-blanketed debris, and climb carefully up a collapsed step whose rotten, splintered black moisture swims in blue moonlight. The stripped wooden floor creaks with hollow, aging groans as I walk with trepidation across the remains of the front room of the house. The whole wooden platform, facing high out from the top of the hill over the deep trees to the city, is the ground floor of what was once a very grand house. The walls are now but tiny, crumbling stumped partitions, but 6 inches high if anything, nonetheless casting long, romantic shadows in the moonlight. And, as the Tenoh boy had said, set against the city lights, is the slumbering, soft, old form of a sofa, sitting quietly in the remains of the South-East-most room, looking out over the panoramic midnight cityscape.

I pick my way over the cumbersome, dusty remains of walls in the moonlight, stars winking down on me from the great, deep inky dome of the heavens that enshroud the hilltop with the heavy, sleepy, navy-blue velvet of coolest night. I reach the sofa, and set my bag down at my feet, opening it to retrieve my soft, worn picnic blanket. The sofa is a great, grand old thing, a huge, deep, squashy 3-seater that one could easily sink into and get lost in. It is battered, but all its parts are intact and it looks, indeed, very sturdy. I throw my blanket over it, and turn to heave down onto it.

I then look up, and the view that meets me is greater still than when I first rounded the hilltop. It is as if I am looking down from heaven at all below me, twinkling and slumbering away. The night is cool and dewy-fresh, brisk on the twilight hilltop, but the passing, twinkling kisses blown by stars, and the deep, breathless musk of the ancient sofa that hugs me into it are warm and seduce me with heavy sleep. Below me, small sounds of the city float up to me comfortably. And the moon is clearer and brighter now than ever, seemingly almost closer, full, white and pregnant, beaming crisply down to me with remarkable health and unearthly shine. I could almost reach up to it to lay my palms on the cool, hard surface that emits this startling, glowing whiteness.

I close my eyes and a feeling escapes me with a ghostly sigh. I pull my coat tight to me, sinking back into the sofa. Can the Tenoh boy see this brilliant clear moon too?

_The Pacific's a big thing._

A feverishly messy crop of long, blond hair that grazes his collar and his dark brow crowns the blurred image of him that runs in a slow-motion loop in my mind. I try to gather up these few select memories with reverent, frenzied haste like an evacuee quickly gathering their most treasured belongings. I am startled to find my eyes are open again, and gazing down at the city.

If he were there, sitting casually next to me, deep in thought, legs crossed musefully, turning to raise one aloof eyebrow in that strangely quizzical, warmly ironic way, before breaking the corners of his mouth into a small grin, running a fidgety palm through his hair, opening his mouth hesitantly to say something sparse I couldn't possibly begin to predict…

I wish I could just sit and let his quiet simplicity soak into me. He isn't simple, though. Again and again I stumble before myself and he's caught me off guard, and I'm wide eyed and breathless like a deer caught in headlamps. I can never read him. He reflects the full very depth and worry of mine, but somehow, he copes. He swallows it whole, and, strangely, smiles.

_You're not kidding anybody, Michiru._

The stars are bright and small. The dark, sleeping forest hums in the breeze on the hilltop. The look of him and smell of him and the memory of the feel of him pacify me, soften and ease me into the night-time world. Everything, somehow, is rounded and brighter, blooming gently, and the noise less pressing.

And, before I even realise it's happening, I'm being lovingly dragged along by some breathless, hungry magnetism that holds me with a precise, well-practised firmness that knows my heart even more preciously, with even more subtlety, than I ever could. The ghostly sigh of the inky night folds in around me. It's a warm, brilliant ache.

-

Teddy was stood at the tall window looking out over the city by evening when I returned from the hall. His apartment was very spacious, but full of retro clutter and sports paraphernalia. He'd made it into a really indulgent, nostalgic bachelor pad for when he was away from his family home. The table and coffee lamps were on, glowing away meticulously under stretched, soft-coloured cotton shades, and the New York radio dribbled out from the old cassette player on the breakfast bar. The coffee machine was humming away busily. When he heard me enter, striding slowly and quietly over his askew Moroccan rugs to round his big, squashy couches, he turned and gave me a big grin over his beer.

"No luck?" he exclaiming warmly before raising his eyebrows, and turning to hoist his beefy frame down onto his worn couch.

"Unfortunately no".

"Well… I didn't think you'd get through to the school anyhow, they're probably closed". He looked up at me, and I resumed a place next to him.

"Did you try that… erm, Takeo, is it, guy?"

"Yeah, no luck". I leaned forward to pick up my bottle from the comfortably ring-stained wooden table, and Teddy flicked on the big TV. It was a noisy, buzzing American Football game. He leaned back to enjoy it.

"What about violin girl?"

"Huh?" I looked at him vacantly, warily. He gave me another stubbly grin.

"What's her name, Mer…Meh…"

"-Michiru?"

"Got it, kid".

He took another swig of beer, draping his browned arm over the back of the sofa, absorbed in the game. I waited a little while pensively before replying.

"Yeah, I did".

"And did you get through to her?" I couldn't tell how much attention he was paying me. I glanced at the deepening sunset over the balcony outside, the ripening stars.

"No".

"Gonna try her again tomorrow?"

I waited again, sitting up straight, fingering my shirt cuffs. I saw in the pale reflection of the windows that I was biting my lip.

"Well…I…"

My voice was lost.

Teddy laughed wonderfully, patting his thinning head with his free hand, grinning as he enjoyed more of his beer.

"Ms. Tenoh," he sang, deeply amused, "do you remember that young British guy we bumped into in that bar when you were staying here last September?"

"What… that one who called me, what was it…a 'fucking pillock'? He was a right little punk, what a creep. Had nothing better to do I suppose".

Teddy continued to watch the game on the TV with intent enjoyment. A new song started on the radio in the corner.

"That's the one".

I hesitated.

"What about him?"

Teddy grinned again.

"He was right, you know".

"What?"

I stared at him. He just continued to grin, eyes darting back to the game.

"Yeah, well. Just call her again tomorrow, okay?"

I paused.

"Okay".

Teddy chuckled.

"You really are slow, kid".

I retorted nothing, and drank my beer.

-

_Instalment number 4, oh yes! A big one, yup, I'm quite proud. Sorry it's sooo late, but I've just started college again and I'm having to get back into the habit of getting down to homework BEFORE 6.30pm in the evening, hehe. Nevertheless, I've managed this one in my free minutes. I feel my writing improving with every chapter, and all constructive criticism to help me further improve would be most welcome :) stay tuned for the fateful reunion of our star-crossed lovers! 'til next time, peace x_


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks for the comments for chappy 4 :)

_Thanks for the comments for chappy 4 :). In hindsight, yeah, it was an utter beast towards the end :o sorry! I kinda zoned out and couldn't stop writing, entranced, you know? Like the opposite of a writer's block. Words just pouring out of me! Anyway, I've edited it a teensy bit to make it more reader-friendly, so that's sorted, but I'm proud of it nonetheless. I wanted a chapter dedicated mainly to Michi and sorting out her feelings for Takeo and Haruka respectively._

_She's a deep, complicated gal (the way Mrs. Takeuchi made her!), and I hope you, the readers, can begin to see change and growth coming about in her. I've always envisaged Haruka as just as lonely and world-weary as Michi (pre-Michiru, this is), but clearer-minded and better at dealing with it, due to her more relaxed and lightly sarcastic nature. As one reviewer commented, yup, they really are a solemn pair, but I love characters like that, and even more so watching them blossom and evolve into realising that, hey, the world isn't such a bad place after all! Well, now I've got Michi beginning the process of going head over heels (and I felt that Haruka was really falling slowly in love all along, y'know?), the fun begins! XD Enjoy, and peace! x_

-

My senses come colliding with the crashing of cold reality, heart rioting in frenzied rhythm. I hear movement, but my eyes still haven't adjusted to the renewed darkness of the hilltop, and I cannot seem to stimulate movement from my frantic, disbelieving nerves. From a blurred web of faint light, my eyes begin to peel apart the separate districts city from the buzzing orange mess, but as I go to move, something, someone, maybe the thing I heard a moment ago, comes crashing heavily over the large chair.

I leap up, screaming a wild, dry cry that rolls around the dark clearing, stumbling across the floor, shaken off-balance by my own voice. I turn, and the dark figure that fell over the sofa is shifting and righting itself in the darkness, unfurling, and I make it out as tall and thin. I remember that the newspaper cut-out is in my bag by the sofa. I scramble swiftly over the rotting wood, but the figure has already turned to flee, flying over to the dark opening of the stairs below in the woods. I call out in pursuit, but some strange force, like an orb of deafening pressure and silence, sweeps me off my feet, filling my ears and eyes with deathly-quiet pitch blackness.

Then, I lose consciousness, and the strange, tangled events of the past few seconds are lost to the night.

-

Teddy was smirking at me the entire time as we waited for the cab to come. The apartment building concierge who had dialled for one for us was now gloomily filing her nails, gazing hypnotised at the CCTV screen behind the lobby desk with banal disinterest. I leaned against the mirror-shined marble top of the desk, fiddling mindlessly at the toggle on my bag and tapping my feet on the polished floor. Ted made some passing comment about how someone kept moving the potted plants in the lobby, that yesterday they'd been by the elevator and now they were by the door and this had been going on for weeks now ("seriously!"), but I was only half listening.

"…so I mentioned this to the…" he trailed off, still grinning like a school boy at me. He ducked his baseball-capped head over the desk and whistled to the zonked-out concierge. I looked on in mild amusement and intrigue.

"Hey, ma'am!"

She jolted up, thickly mascara'ed eyes shot wide, immediately swinging her feet off her desk.

"Can we use your phone, if you don't mind?"

She narrowed her glare, depositing her nail file in her pencil holder and leaning forward.

"It's 2 to use the lobby phone, sir," she remarked.

"Look, whatever".

She threw the plastic phone onto the marble top and turned to resume her staring. Ted lifted the receiver and punched in the dialling code for external numbers with his stubby fingers, before turning to look at me, giving me a sly wink.

"Shall we try once more for luck?" he jested with a deep bellied laugh.

I raised my eyebrows to him. I felt my throat muscles constrict a little and my hand fell to my side, ceasing to fiddle with my shoulder bag. I wanted to speak to her.

"You sure?" I breathed, furrowing my brow slightly and stepping a little to him.

"Go ahead, kid".

Teddy pushed the plastic set to me. He handed me the receiver and I placed it to my ear, and I felt a little tense at the sound of the unbroken surgical beep. I pressed in the number I'd tried so many times that past week. It dialled, making the crackling overseas connection. We waited, and I looked to Ted, his eyebrows raised in patient expectation as he leaned, nonplussed, against the marble top. It rang. And rang.

_Jesus._

"Hello? Kaioh".

I raised my head sharply like a greyhound to a starting shot, pupils dilating to Ted's. He grinned wider. I gripped the phone tighter.

"Ms. Michiru?"

"Yes. Who… who is this?"

Ted's hand was frozen mid-way to adjusting his cap, eyes glittering in evident enjoyment. Michiru's voice was small but lovely. Through the veil of buzz and electric hush, it was her.

"Hello?" she paused, mild and controlled, before slowing continuing, "who…Tenoh?"

I slipped my bag off my shoulder to cradle the receiver to me with a second hand.

"Yes, it's Tenoh Haruka," I breathed, swift to answer.

"Oh, I…"

There was the strangest pause, like the quietening gap between the dramatic rupturing of a wave on a exploding rock, and the water being slowly drained and sucked back into the ocean.

"Yes," I said, "I just wanted to…I'm coming back to Japan today, and I'll be in school in…three days".

There was then another pause in which the line fizzed with a sound like the rustling of leaves and soft breeze. I could hear the little cogs in her head working, formulating a response.

"You will?"

I lifted my head to Ted, who cocked a brow to the glass lobby doors. A cab had pulled up outside up front, beeping its horn impatiently.

"I'm sorry," I almost whispered, "I've really got to go. My cab's here for the airport".

Her voice shrunk delicately.

"Oh, don't, wait, I-"

"-I'll pass you over to the guy I've been staying with-"

"-Tenoh?-"

"-he can fill you in-"

"-I-"

"-see you soon".

I looked to the floor, eyes glazing a little, my glance swaying. Ted took the phone from my hand with a pat on my back as I bent over to retrieve my rucksack from the polished lobby floor. I hazarded a glance to the venomous concierge who was still filing her nails as I turned, with a final smile of farewell to Ted, to stride steadily across to the doors. I heard him begin to speak to her over the phone with characteristic warmth, his eyes on me as I left.

-

"-see you soon".

I hear a clunking, rustling behind crackling veneers of the trans-Pacific line, then he's gone. My heart shrinks tightly into a hard knot and I cradle the dead receiver closer to my cheek, waiting.

"Ms. Kaioh?"

"-where's Tenoh Haruka?" I start, pressing my teeth into my lip as I stand from my bed.

"I-I'm sorry," says the man in English, "I don't know what you're saying, ma'am".

"Oh," I apologise, my body weight sinking into the floor, murmuring in vacant English, "I'm sorry. Where is Haruka Tenoh?"

"I'm sorry, miss," burbles the American, "Haruka's gotta get to the airport, the cab's here. I'm the guy who's put up bed and board for the week and grappled with all the legal stuff. Teddy Harris, pleasure".

"Legal stuff?"

"Yup, Haruka was an orphan as of 2 years ago, so it's inheritance. The fact Mr. & Mrs. Tenoh declared Haruka independent in a different country, and the whole getting a different passport nationality, made things really messy".

"Oh".

I lift the plastic set gently from my bedside table and round the bed. There's the gentle prepubescent glow of morning seeping in from behind the curtains in faint, yolky yellow, crowning their edges with dazzling white sharpness, and I cast them open, flooding the new day's room. I feel a little better. He had called, so suddenly, after all.

_The Tenoh boy's coming back._

"Mr. Harris," I almost whisper, gazing out over the bright city morning with its lulling Sunday creak of traffic and yawning pedestrians, "does Haruka want me to notify the teachers tomorrow about the arrangements for returning to school?"

"Yup, there's a favour, Ms. Kaioh".

I can hear him grin over the phone. Talking to him does calm me, thinking of Haruka, near him.

"Okay," he sighs, "thanks for that. We were lucky to connect with you".

"…really?"

"Yeah, we tried Haruka's school friend Takeo and the school but we had no luck".

"Oh… right". Pigeons coo in awakening in the alcove above my window. The clouds are bright, embossed against the sky with aggressive sharpness, brilliant white and blue. Beams of morning strain on the floor, warm against my bare legs. I think to go in and make breakfast soon. I think of Haruka. Teddy continues in farewell.

"Well, hope to hear from you soon, Ms. Kaioh".

"Okay. Thank you".

"I'm sure Haruka'll be in touch when she gets home".

Bang. I double-take. Like I stepped on something hot. A recoil ricochets up and down my erect spine, sharper than lightning.

"Pardon?" I breathe. I clutch the phone set with vivid tension. My vision tunes out, fluctuating in confusion.

"Oh, I said I'm sure Haruka'll get in touch when she gets home. Her flight's due in in about 17 hours from now, so you could try calling her then if you want".

His voice waits, perfectly patient and intact. I've no idea what to say. I fumble to produce a small, broken sentence.

"O-oh, right. Thanks, then…bye".

I let the phone hover next to my ear, droning one endless, chronic beep, before replacing it slowly, shaking, onto the set. I carefully fold up my limbs to sit cross-legged on the warm wood floor in the checker-board of sunlight squares, quivering, gazing out transfixed over the cityscape. The plastic phone set rests in my lap, dormant, plastic extension cords trailing in fond knots back over the soft form of the unmade bed. It's a beautiful morning. Again, I'm thinking of Haruka. I can't help it. My hands squeeze my knees tightly.

_This is crazy. A girl! __**A girl!**_

I glance up at the clock. 8.26am. 17 hours.

_Good God, you've done it now, Michiru._

-

I sit at the dining table, legs crosses, tapping my pen deftly on a clean pad of paper. Although mid-morning now, I've barely made a start on my essay for English. I've calmed down, all the ringing, clashing bells in my head settled now, but I can't stop. It's Haruka…her. I press my eyes shut and hold my fingers tightly into my hot palms. My paper lays unwritten.

_Oh, please._

I feel as if I'm praying here, sat at my peaceful dining table in the sunlight, soft sounds of Sunday floating up to me from the streets.

I can't stop this.

_I can't stop this._

I can't believe it, but it's kicking inside me, a restless ache that keeps dragging her image before my closed eyes, at the forefront of my mind. No matter how I concentrate, my head is a perpetual theatre of my stupid, childish desires, making a fond mockery of me. I curse this bizarre displacement that's holding me down, entirely unsympathetic. But it's too late to be undone.

_After all…_

After all, it's the strange effeminacy, which melts the brittle darkness of her initial appearance, that draws me to her. Soft skin, soft jaw, parted pink lips. It's like she's trying to _not_ to be gorgeous, hiding under a defensive gaze and a breathless mane of messy hair. And failing.

_Come to think of it, I was never really all that attracted to Takeo._

I sit back upright, gazing at the lost sheep of a tiny cloud in an empty azure sky. Takeo was, after all, the only boy I'd ever really _had_ an interest in, and he had never seemed to stir anything much in me. I pause, sitting in silence for a moment, listening to the water dripping lightly in the cooling kettle. The room resonates sleepily with the comfortable lethargy of a blue-skied Sunday, plumbing drumming away industriously, birds and people calling in the streets below. Sunlight is thrown acutely, gushing in bright, rippling midday waves, off many shining surfaces. My photo frame on the wall is awash for a moment with thick, dazzling white, then the sun is intercepted by a shy little cloud blown carefree across the sky, and there is a passing eclipse of drained grey in the room.

The phone rings.

_Shit!_

My heart bubbles up in crazy shudders as I reach for the phone. The plastic rattles gently in the cradle, then I press my shaking hand on it, and it stills. I lift the receiver and place it to my ear with forced bravery.

"Hello? Kaioh?" I whisper.

"_Signorina!_ My lovely!" gushes Alessandro in wry, smooth Italian from the other end of the line. My nerves quieten a little in strange relief.

"Oh, hello, Alessandro!" I reply slowly, feeling like a tightrope-walker thrown off-balance, trying to steady my voice. My head is still swimming at the ringing of the phone. "It's great to here from you. Where are you?"

"Heh, oh, here and there my sweet, you know," he grins down the phone, "so, how are you these days? Still as melancholy as ever? It's not normal for gorgeous, young, virginal girls like you to be so moody".

"Oh, heh, yes. Maybe," I quiver, picking up the phone set. I cross the sun-caught room to ease myself down into the couch.

"Mmm, you sound a little bit better," he giggles, "been drinking a lot? A man in your life?"

I scoff gently, though his voice is a balm for my nerves. I press my eyes shut to somehow diffuse the trickling remnants of shaky tension from my head, but the image of her materialises in my mind's eye, as clear as a projection.

"How much is this call costing you?"

"Ha! Don't loiter off-subject, my petal, you must tell me!"

I scrunch my brows a little, massaging my temple with my fingertips. Brittle sunlight gleams in white daggers off the black television screen. The room is warm.

"I…I'm not sure. It's all a little fuzzy right now".

"Oh, is it?"

I can hear the smirk in his voice. I'm starting to feel better, and want to laugh a little.

"Ah," he continues, formulating something mischievously down the other end of the line, "…a drunken night of passion?"

"No!" I retaliate, smiling, "no…that's not it".

"Heh". He pauses for a bit, perhaps sensing I have something to say. We snuggle up in that pause, and I hear his slight, quiet breath down the phone, as if he were next to me on the sofa, asleep. My mind winds back to the time I met him. We were waiting for a train in Italy, and I sat on his box of pastries by accident. I apologised profusely, but he just laughed and said that now he couldn't give them, squashed like that, to his girlfriend, so he could eat them. He was very pleased. On that train journey, we began to talk, about my travels, home, guilt, everything, and he told me in response that, unfortunately, the world isn't divided simply into good and bad people. There are plenty of good people, who, for whatever reason, do bad things, and bad people who spend their whole lives playing the nice guy for their own selfish ends.

"Allie," I murmur quietly, "am I a bad person… do you think?"

I hear him pause to think for a moment, before he replies. The sky clouds, overcast, suddenly, and the room cools grey again.

"No," he said gently, "you can make bad decisions, but…you're still learning. You're young. So cut yourself some slack, dear". I hear his voice lift in a grin as he reaches the end of his sentence.

"Okay," I smile, the sun growing stronger again, the apartment bold with light once more.

"The world can be a real shithole," he laughs, "you don't always have the luxury to make the right decisions for the right reasons, life never runs that smooth. I mean," he continues, "most of the time, you have to choose between either doing the 'good' thing for the wrong reasons, or doing the 'bad' thing for good reasons. You just have to judge which is the right thing to do for yourself".

I say nothing, holding the phone quietly to my ear, nestled beneath my hair.

"You're smart, my love," he declares, voice grinning, "I'm sure you always do your best with what you've got. Don't sweat, it, seriously now. You'll screw up that lovely little face of yours until you get like an old hag. You're wonderful now, truly, don't put yourself down so".

I smile.

"So…" he muses with drama, "just what _is _it, now?"

"I…split up with Takeo".

Another soft silence settles in the apartment as I hear his mind ticking away down the phone.

"You did?"

I nod, though suddenly realising he can't see me, but he continues anyway.

"Well…y'know, I think you did do the right thing there. Don't expect people not to get monumentally pissed off or depressed, but you'll live, and so will he".

"I wish I could've helped him more".

"Ah, you can only lead the horse to water, my _bonita_," he drawls in a dramatic, matter-of-fact way that makes me laugh.

"Oh, okay," I shine, leaning back on the sofa. The recalled smell of Haruka lifts me, and I realise that I'm feeling alright after all.

"So…" he burbles lazily, " anything else I ought to know. You better hurry it up, there's this girl Mathilde from Picardie who said she'd call me about now. Ah, you know how I love those rough northern French working girls".

I scoff, twisting the plastic cord musefully round my finger. My mind is filled with Haruka, and everything is strange, but I suddenly realise how much I want to play my violin. Sunlight here warms my skin.

"Um…maybe. But I'll let you go".

"Mein Gott, you wanton girl, you're so cryptic!"

"Hehe, really?"

"You bet, my mysterious little _belle du jour_".

"Excuse me!"

"Consider yourself excused".

I rise from the sofa, resting the plastic set on my hip as I cast my eyes across the breakfast bar and out over the early afternoon city. The phone still rests against my ear. Gulls soar in tight circles across the sun, grey against the brilliant clouds. Faraway cars call up in muffled beeps and drones. I cross the kitchen, tiles cool against my bare soles, and lean to open the window over the silver, glittering sink, to let the day into my home. I feel like going out this evening, or maybe some evening, any, soon.

"Okay, thanks for calling, Alessandro".

"No probs. I'll talk to you again soon".

"No… I mean it. I feel much better now, thanks".

A little golden silence buds between us, and I wish he was there for this moment to hug me a goodbye. I wish he could meet Haruka, with his messy, short brown hair and ridiculous tanned grin. He's the kind of guy who's just _good_ with people.

"My pleasure, then, my lovely!"

"Bye".

"Talk to you soon".

The receiver is cut dead, and I reach over to place it on the set on the breakfast bar. I lean against the sink, arms resting on the window ledge, and the Sunday breeze laps at the curled ends of my hair, brushing them from my face. A cool rush of sky air presses against my cheeks. I'm high up, gazing out over the bright traffic and yellow sun-soaked sides of tall buildings bathing in the light of brilliant afternoon. I lean out further, the view panoramic, and just off to the right I can see the side of the temple hill with Haruka's sofa. Its sloping side is covered in brilliant green undergrowth, though too far away to make out when I was sat when-

I am suddenly gripped by a strange lurch of déjà vu – I have forgotten something terribly important about that hill and the night.

I strain in my mind, though it's like trying to heave myself out of quicksand. The more I struggle to remember, the more I'm sucked away from enlightenment. I shake my head profusely, unable to remember. I bite my lip, looking up to squint out at the hill, brilliantly green in the sunlight.

_What is it?_

I wait there for a few moments to calm, and turn to get a glass out of the cabinet to fill up with tap water. I take a drink, the breeze still fresh as it weaves itself into my hair playfully. Nothing is revealing itself to me, so I think no more of it. The blonde returns to my mind. Calmer now for Alessandro's call, I let the thoughts in my head unfold and elaborations of thought swell and present themselves to me. How Haruka is so… I bite my lip, leaning further out of the window to soak of the fresh air. She's so… unpredictable. Takeo, Motoyo, Tsukimi, my classmates, Mr. Abe, I can read everyone. But not her. She has me on edge, and I can't begin to predict what's going on behind that coy, whimsical grin. She says and does the most profoundly strange things. I concede that I have never met anyone like her.

I take another clear sip from my cool glass. I have the most vivid desire to play the violin. I haven't been gripped by this kind of compulsion to play since the night Haruka and I played together. Something is going to happen. I can feel it. Something soon.

-

The sky was completely dark by the time I pulled up outside of the party in Tenth Street's nightlife district. I slipped my revving bike in a small space between two cars, and removed my helmet, shaking my hair free. All down the street, bars and clubs were lit up as if it were Christmas, making the stars look dull. Cars, music and chatter saturated the busy night air, grumbling, shuddering bass lines floating up into the inky night. A group of girls stumbled right past me, laughing loudly, and a steady stream of cars screeched past to my left. I swung my legs over to land on the dark tarmac, helmet under my arm, and lifted up the seat to slot my helmet safely away.

"Tenoh!"

I heard a loud, gently slurred call, and looked up to the entrance of the venue. Standing outside, bottle in hand, surrounded by a group of dressed-up girls and some grave-looking football players was Takeo. He'd called me up on Sunday night to invite me a party:

"Who's it for?"

"Oh, just the girlfriend of some guy on the Hockey team".

"What's she called?"

"Dunno, mate".

"Damn, sounds like a bit of an excuse for a rave".

"Yup. They've rented out this bar downtown for Tuesday".

I wove my way through clusters of laughing, drinking people on the pavement to reach Takeo, who was leaning against the black-painted brick wall of the chic club, pink UV lights of the club's sign tinting his hair strangely in the brisk night air. He grinned at me as I broke into the circle of people.

"Tenoh! Man! How's it going?"

He leaned in to give me a slap on the shoulder. The hand that was holding a bottle was around the waist of a thin blue-eyed girl in a short black strapless dress. She whispered something to the pink-dress-posing Asian girl next to her, their hungry, black-outlined eyes on me like eagles. I shifted my gaze back to Takeo, digging my hands casually into my pockets, curtly raising my eyebrows, straightening my back. I replied loudly, having to raise my voice a little to rise above the thumping dance music that resonated from within the club. It seemed the party was already in full swing.

"Yeah, I'm good. Tuesday… great choice of night for a party".

Takeo laughed loudly. He'd definitely already had some drinks, but was about as composed as he usually was sober.

"Well, ya got this little lady to blame for it".

He nodded his head to the same Asian girl in the pink dress, who grinned a shiny lip gloss grin at me, showing perfect white teeth. I grinned back, giving her a little wink as I bowed my shoulders to her.

"Mm hmm, so you're the lovely Birthday Girl," I cooed in a low voice. She turned and giggled to her blue-eyed friend. Her dress was very tight, and the laced sides of her black bra peeped out from around the straining pink satin.

_Jesus._

"Alright," yawned Takeo, pulling blue eyes a little closer to him, "Tenoh's here, let's go inside".

I stuck close to Takeo, head high, as the group wove between clusters of people and between open silver doors into the club. Inside, it was dark and monsoon-hot, the humidity of human sweat and breath permeating my clothes. The neon-lit bar to my left was strewn with girls reclining on a barstool, surveying everything else, drink in hand, leaning on the lacquer-black bar top. Bright moving lights, multicoloured, rippled over the crowd of dancing students. In the right hand corner, the DJ tapped his feet under a red spotlight, darting between sound desks and turntables, mixing frantically like an alchemist. The noise was almost deafening, the rumbling bass pressing in on me from all sides with a low, subsonic gravity. It pulled and shoved the mass of bodies in waves, people dancing and grinding, their shrieks barely audible over the frenzied pace of the melodious beat. White blinks of glittering glasses and earrings caught the searching beams of swirling lights, and the snaking movement of satin dress-clad hips shuddered in the flashes of strobes. The low, black ceiling trapped the hot ghosts of heady breath and rolling waves of sound, the wide, dark, sunken room alive with the relentless, intimate movement of crowds. Flickers of white, pink, red, blue and green caught freeze frames of faces and entwining limbs for snapshots of seconds, before they were lost again back into the hot shadows deep in the belly of the dance floor.

"C'mon," Takeo called, his steamy breath straining loudly in my ear. His football friends and the girls had gone elsewhere. "Let's go get some drinks".

He grabbed my shoulder and we wove between hot throngs of wildly laughing, flirting bodies towards the bar. As I looked past them, a swish of soft, shoulder-length hair and the wide, glittering glance of aqua eyes stole the breath from my throat.

_Michiru…_

I stalled momentarily, brows raised, biting my lip. I instinctively reached up to whip my fingers through my fringe, opening and closing my mouth to call out. Takeo, however, grunted "Come _on!_" unceremoniously, and I was pulled by the current of the deafening crowds. A murmuring blue halo surrounded her pale face, sinking further and further away from me back into the crowd. Her eyes quivered faintly (and I was unsure whether or not she was, indeed, looking at me) like two soft glow-fish in a still twilight lagoon. But she soon turned away to face some anonymous girlfriend and was lost into the crowd, shrinking further and further away.

We made our steady way up some shallow, blue spotlight-lit steps to the bar, joking loudly, and squeezed between two clusters of girls. It was more clearly lit here, and I gazed in a trance at the glittering rows of rainbow glass bottles that cluttered the bar wall with opulent, crystallised colour. The music was still loud, pummelling at the walls, and the crowd of girls to my left were chatting loudly to Takeo, who was squeezed up next to me on a cushy leather and chrome stool.

I leaned as casually as I could on the black lacquer marble top of the bar, drumming my fingers darkly on an ashtray, deep in thought, trying to shut out the wild jungle noise. I called to the bored-looking barman for a beer, and he brought it quietly, accepting a note.

She was here.

I had to see her, had to speak to her. I'd missed her so much in America. Why was it like this, why did she keep coming and going, like a cat slipping coyly in and out of shadows? It was like chasing something in a vivid dream: the closer I got, the more suddenly and cruelly it was snatched from me. She was iridescent and blindingly mysterious. Thoughts jittered and juggled between themselves in my mind, short and frenzied.

"Yo, Tenoh, what's wrong?"

I looked up to Takeo, who was grinning like a madman as he reclined overly-comfortably on the bar, showing off to the group of girls. I snapped back to reality, straightening up to take a slow swig from my bottle and give the girls a casual grin of sly interest.

"Hey girls. Enjoying yourselves?" I shouted.

"Knock it out, Tenoh! We all know _you've _got _your _eye on Midori" slurred Takeo loudly, slapping his hand dramatically on the bar top. The girls giggled over the music, and a group of burly soccer players filed past us.

"Shit, Takeo," I mused, twirling my bottle in hand, letting the corner of my mouth curl, "I'm really not one to scramble for your leftovers".

He let out a deep hyena laugh, slipping his arm around the girl next to him. He restored his gaze, and gave a little flick of his fringe. A few of the girls in the group giggled a little at this evidently deeply sexy notion. I glanced out quickly at the crowd, holding my heartbeat for a moment at the flash of sea-green in my peripheral vision.

"Tenoh," drawled one of the girls slowly, tugging a little at her short, overly-tight black dress, "I hear you were in America. That's _really _cool".

I looked with vague disinterest at her, when I suddenly noticed the girl next to her. Unlike her friends, with their pink, red and purple low-plunging and strapless numbers, she wore a choker-neck dress in a delicate shade of pale blue, which, although finishing just a little way down her slim thighs, looked gorgeously aloof and refined on her. She was Asian in her colouring, and creamily pale against her tanned friends. Her ebony hair was cut unusually short, a little pixie bob that flicked quaintly onto her cheeks, strikingly pretty against the long dyed and straightened locks of the other girls here. On her head rested a pair of oversized designer sunglasses.

"You…" I half-grunted, catching her eye and pulling a hand up to graze it through my fringe, "have I seen you somewhere before?"

She held herself with modest poise, and glanced at me gently, cheeks tingeing a little pink.

"Yeah…" I said in a low voice, leaning into the group with a casual slouch, "I reckon I have…"

"You were…" she smiled, "supposed to buy me Ice Cream Soda".

"Damn," I grinned, eyes widening as I leaned closer to her, "you're the chick from the car at the stoplights".

Her small mouth widened more, and she twirled a wine glass astutely in her slender white fingers. She had on a delicate silver charm bracelet, embellished with tiny glittering cats, shoes, quills, bird cages, carriages and roses. Takeo looked on, eyes raised in evident enjoyment. The barman leaned next to us to polish glasses, unashamedly eavesdropping over the thumping music and loud crowds.

"My little sister and her friends were very disappointed you couldn't come with us".

"Ah, well, my apologies".

Some of the girls around stoplight girl leaned in to giggle together, exchanging enthralled gossip.

"Hehe, don't worry. I told them not to let themselves be strung along by loose guys like you".

"So I'm a loose guy?"

Her large black eyes smiled up at me with gentle flirtation.

"Maybe".

"Well, I'm sorry I gave that impression. I really remember that I had quite a pressing engagement to get to".

My mind was swept instantly back to the recital. And her. Glance dragged back out into the throbbing, rumbling crowd, my eyes flitted between spotlights in search of a flicker of captivating aqua eyes. The stoplight girl instantly noticed my trailing-off interest in her.

"Are you looking for someone?"

I turned back to her, curling the corner of my mouth. I leaned back onto the barstool.

"Neh… a bit".

Takeo surfaced from leaning in whispers against the neck of the girl next to him to blurt loudly:

"Oh, for fuck's _sake_, if you wanna get with Midori just _find_ her already".

I cocked an eyebrow sarcastically.

"Maybe not. She's not my… type. Jesus, Takeo," I retorted in a low snap.

A new, faster record wound up, bass rumbling in faster, heavier waves across the flashing electric dance floor to us. Stoplight girl looked uncomfortably between me and Takeo. I glanced with aloof trepidation back to her.

"Sorry about this".

I slipped from the barstool and turned to stride steadily down from the bar to the low-lit lounge.

"Tenoh!"

Takeo bolted up behind me, catching up with me. His speech was a little slurred.

"Tenoh?"

"Oh, leave me alone, Takeo".

"Come on," he shouted over the music, sighing loudly, "I wanna talk to you about something anyway, come with me".

I followed him down into the lounge, which was sunken from the crazed, juddering dance floor above. It was fully of cushy deep red chairs and low-lit with a bizarre, poisonous cocktail of blood red, indigo and acid green. Incense wafted up from glowing burners on dark wood coffee tables which were littered with empty shot glasses. The whole place had the strange, rich subterranean feel of some Amazonian twilight voodoo ritual. People were gathered in dark, hazy clusters on chairs, whispering loudly over the bass line rolling down from the floor above, and other couches were occupied by frantically entwined couples. Takeo paced across the dark wood floor to a pair of squashy couches in the corner by an eerily-glowing fish tank, the water of which had been dyed some worrying shade of rippling red. My mind was still gripped by Michiru, contemplating the possibility that she might leave while I was not on the dancefloor. Takeo sank into his couch, away from the bustle of the lounge, and fished in his pocket for a cigarette, which he lit.

I sat down next to him, watching him, my head swimming in the strange molten mixture of the lustrous eyes of the strange Michiru and the heady, dark perfume of incense. In this quieter, cosier corner of the lounge, Takeo's darkened face was momentarily lit with dusky glowing orange as he drew from his cigarette. His eyes burnt faintly, and he leaned forward to set his drink down on the table.

"Me and Michiru aren't together anymore," he put simply. With each glowing drag of his cigarette, I observed where his black, smouldering eyes were looking through the dark, incensed smog. I replied nothing, something in my heart quivering, so strange and brash.

_Takeo and Michiru aren't together anymore._

It felt as if I was dreaming. I stretched back on the chair, draping my arms lazily across the cushy back of it, legs spread. I shook my hair from my eyes, and as Takeo's faltering gaze met my own, I gave him a grim smile, frowning a little. He replied with a blank lift of his own dark, handsome brows, and in that moment I realised what he must've been feeling. I gave a low whistle, tipping my head back.

"Damn, you must be pissed off," I said in a low, concerned baritone.

He leaned forward, and as his flickering cigarette faintly illuminated his face once more from the shadows, I saw his eyes glaze over.

"Yeah. It sucks. I kid you not".

"Oh".

I didn't know what to say. I paused a little, dumbfounded. My mind was stilled with grievance for Takeo, yet my heart thundered like a crashing grand piano: all bells, whistles and cavalry charges, ringing in my ears. Takeo was so morose over the whole matter, Michiru surely must've ended it. Michiru…

"I… didn't know you smoked".

Takeo sprung back into reality, gaze warming back to me, grinning a little.

"When I feel like shit from time to time and I wanna smoke, I'll smoke. But I don't make a habit of it".

I sat in silence for a moment.

"Wow…" I gave another low whistle, coxing a brow up.

"Huh?"

Takeo looked quizzically at me.

"What'd'ya mean, Tenoh?"

"Takeo is helpless but to succumb to the lustre of female flesh, yet the mighty force of nicotine is nothing to _his_ willpower".

Takeo waggled his cigarette between two fingers and gave a small chuckle. He enjoyed another drag before replying.

"That's the most philosophical thing I've heard all week".

"When I'm feeling cocky and wanna be philosophical, I'll be philosophical, but I don't make a habit of it".

He chuckled even more deeply.

"Shit, you're so sultry and whatnot around everyone and when I'm trying to talk to you properly you're such an idiot".

I laughed in return.

"You're an idiot all the time".

"Jesus. Supportive".

He rested back in his seat, his torso scrunching up a little as he chuckled softly to himself. He looked uncharacteristically small. A new song rumbled up, striking a high, frantic dance melody that wafted down to us, but was unable to permeate the thick incense that blurred red-tinged silhouettes. Voices busy in low, alcohol-blurred chatter reached us in the dim lighting, and the incense burner on our table flared up a little. A group of girls, laughing loudly, staggered over to the group of squashy sofas opposite us, and fell onto them. One immediately fell asleep, drink in hand, and three, giggling drunkly, started taking turns kissing each other.

The hot, buzzing room pressed sleep onto me, and my mind slipped back into Michiru mode. Where was she? A high, sweet note in the incense recognised something in my memory, and I was dragged sleepily back to the soft morning I left for America and the scent of her hair. Her soft, pale frame in her duffel coat, glowing in the cool morning air, eyes quivering expectantly into me, drawing something from mine. And the small sound of her breath, surprised as I leaned next to her.

"Look," murmured Takeo from the lulling fog of soft cigarette smoke, "go if you want".

His eyes burnt as he gazed at me curiously, his cigarette between his fingers.

"You sure?"

"Yeah. I know you're here when I wanna talk. That's what I need. As well as…"

He nudged a brow to his drink on the table.

I gave him a slow nod, and lifted myself from the couch. I said nothing, presuming a goodbye. He wanted to be alone now. I picked my way round the couches. One of the girls in the giggling group wolf-whistled, before blaring an alcohol-slurred shriek of laughter. I ignored them, making my way back up to the dance floor. The air began to clear, and flashes of broken colours were thrown in synthetic neon washes over the steps up to the club as I grew nearer. The noise increased, the rumble of roaring bass shivering the floor with deep rolls of thunder. The quivering of expectant mass and sound pressed in closer, and as I resurfaced from the subterranean depths of the lounge, a fresh wall of light and sound hit me.

I struggled into the crowd, pushing into the loud, creaking mass of bodies which swayed and juddered in deafening resonance with the music. Hot breath pressed against me, sticking my clothes to me, the overwhelming pressure of sound, heat and flashing, wild lights giddying. I pummelled further into the depths of the crowd, churning, grinding bodies pressing hot and close into me, sweaty and soft.

I strained myself to my full height, gazing out over the dancers. A little way out, to my left, I spotted an ethereal flash of slowly swaying aqua hair, glimpsed beneath a moonlight-white spotlight that was travelling over the heads of the crowd. Noise deafening, I pressed on.

I had no idea what I'd say to her when I reached her, my heart squeezing, tight as a knot, in my chest. Without the photograph, I'd tried to stir up her image so many times in my head that everything except those pure, glassy-clear aqua orbs had been blurred into a glowing moonlit silhouette bathed in the strange, intoxicating scent of the sea. In my head, a stage spotlight was thrown magnificently over the slender form of her fleshy, pale round face nestling a violin, the birth of such a sweet, sad sound hidden beneath a crown of feathery hair. The breathless song that her hands made with her violin ran over and over in my head, like the sorrowful, slowing jingle of a jewellery box.

I had lived for what had seemed like a small age with her as some distant dream of a human being, nothing but a frozen moment in black and white, and I had craved some, _any_, confirmation that she was real to me.

That passing violin song, and the small autumn warmth of her cheek that morning, I had carried with me. As I lay awake in Teddy's guest bed, New York traffic throwing up moving beams of passing headlamps on my ceiling, thinking of that newspaper photograph, I conceded that I had, after all, been in love with her all along.

My eyes shot back into focus, the huge, swelling reality of the booming sound all around me exploding back into my ears. Someone was calling me.

"Tenoh! Hey!"

I turned, and stoplight girl slipped swiftly between dancing bodies to press her hand against my arm. When she reached me, the current of shrieking, dancing people pushed her closer to me, face to face. She looked very pretty in the noise and light.

"Hey," she said loudly, smiling a modest smile, "now, why do you always keep disappearing on me?"

I raised an eyebrow to her, brushing my hand of the arm she was holding through my hair. She didn't let go as I raised it.

"Sorry about that. Takeo really needed a chat. His girlfriend broke up with him".

She didn't look too convinced.

"Well, you're on your own now".

Her big black eyes quivered like a dog's. A red light rippled across her briefly in the deafening noise, passing over her open mouth, lips shimmering, cheeks flushed with the heat of the crowd. She put her other hand on my waist, pressing in a little closer to me. I glanced behind me, where I'd chanced upon the passing apparition of Michiru's turned head half an hour or so ago. The stoplight girl continued to gaze up at me, the moving crowd pressing in ever closer on us, pushing us together under its ear-piercing, thundering gravity.

"Hey, are you okay? You seem ever so vacant".

I met her gaze again, ears still pricked anxiously for any ghostly sign of Michiru. I had to shout in reply.

"Yeah, sorry, I'm fine. Jetlag".

"Dance a little with me, you'll feel better; I don't mind if you're tired".

Under an electric flash of strobe light, I saw her smiling genuinely to me. She wore a silver chain around her neck, over her choker dress, that matched her little charm bracelet. The pendant was a tiny silver giraffe. It glittered white under passing beam lights. The crowd's frantic, loud churning calmed as a slower record struck up. The bass shook the ground hollowly, resonating through the hot, restless bones of everyone pushed in next to and around me, my ears caving in. The stoplight girl leaned in, tightening her arms about me so her hands clasped behind my back. She leaned her head on my shoulder, pressing her hot, moist forehead to my neck. Her short, dark lashes flickered shut.

She didn't grind madly like the steamy, writhing couples and clusters about us, but swayed rhythmically in a languid, eased pace against me. I rested my hands at the small of her back, but my eyes darted in the confused, twisted jungle of moving arms and legs, flashing with chaotic light and disjointed, deafening noise, a searchlight for life-signs of Michiru somewhere out there in the wild crowd. The small swell of the girl's breast pressed warmly beneath mine, pushing gently into me. Suddenly, she was knocked, and I heard the sharp wind catching from her lungs, startled. Her eyes shot open and she was thrown off-balance by a huge American football player thundering through the crowd after a huffy-looking long-haired girl.

"Are you alri-"

Someone pushed against me, pressing against my arm as they struggled to get past.

"Hey-"

I looked up.

Caught mid-turn, she looked up to me, a frozen deity, her hair brushing the pale, taut skin of her shoulders. Eyes a smouldering mirror for every hopeless dream I'd had that past week, unashamed, her gaze transfixed me there in a private moment. Now, everything else was distantly submerged and sank into the silent black-and-white background, and she, bright-eyed, pale cheeks on the verge of collapsing into a gushing smile, was real. All that time, she was silent still, and I in disbelief, as my brilliant, twilit ghost blossomed into breathing, fleshy colour before me.

Her slender fingers brushed the deep indigo satin of her cocktail dress. The twinkling of her tiny carriage-bell earrings and her soft breathing were the only sounds made in the room.

"Tenoh, who is this?"

I glanced blankly down to stoplight girl, blinking. I let my hands slip from her back. The bulging volume of the music reappeared in my ears, and time unfroze.

"She's…"

I looked up, and Michiru was gone.

"She is…?"

I gazed at where Michiru had stood, where a closely-dancing, sweaty couple had now encroached, pushed from all sides. I snapped back to reality, glancing again to stoplight girl. I lifted a hand to casually ruffled the back of my hair, furrowing my brow a little and letting out a low whistle.

"Erm… I can't remember. I was trying to place her face. Damn, I sure do recognise her though". I spoke with a loud, controlled curtness in a deliberately low voice. Stoplight girl was not convinced, loosening her hold on me a little. She gave me a cute little puzzled look. I realised how deafening the music was again, how stiflingly humid the pressing air around us.

"Is she who you've been looking for all evening?"

I met her eyes. A white light flashed across her face, and every detail of her expression was thrown into shocking momentary clarity.

"You know," she murmured, dropping her head to lean it on my shoulder, "she was really pretty".

I was glad for the confirmation of Michiru's sudden apparition before us, else I knew I would have feared her but a strange projection of my cruel, over-worked imagination. I reached up to ruffle stoplight girl's hair a little. I was feeling peculiarly light.

"Ah, you're not so bad yourself, love".

I lifted her chin to me, and she was smiling. I smirked a little back. A low, blue light passed over her this time and I caught another clear glimpse of her gaze to me.

"Ah, indeed. I'm not wrong," I muttered.

"Oh right".

She replaced her head on my shoulder, tightening her hold on me a little, and I sensed that she was blushing a little. The music loudened, and the crowd began to move faster. The floor rumbled. She raised her voice.

"Well, if she… is who you were looking out for…"

"Mmm?"

"…I think you should go see her".

I let go of stoplight girl and gave her a coy wink. She let her arms fall and smiled back to me. With a hand on her shoulder, I moved pass her to sidle into the crowd. I looked back, and gave her flick of my hair and a casual little bow of my shoulders. She held her arms to her lap and smiled silently back, deafened under the pressure of the roaring crowd. I saw that she was immediately accosted by a tall brown-haired boy requesting a dance.

I turned to look ahead of me, breaking the forceful membrane of the moving mass of bodies. Each pulse of the bass line came down like a hammer blow in my skull, rattling my ear drums violently. Flickering strobe lights flashed before my giddy eyes, disorientating and misguiding me. I was pressed, hot, from all sides, and slowly but steadily plunged between sweat-drenched grinding couples and shrieking groups to finally emerge from the hot jungle of bodies. Nearer now to the entrance, the chic chrome doors were not far. A small, sudden gust of night air through shivered the perspiration from my warm, moist clothes. I shuddered as groups walked passed me, drinks in hand, heading for the dance floor. I stood like an island in the noise of human traffic.

I then saw her.

Stilled, I watched her, hair drifting out fluidly behind her as if underwater. Her deep satin cocktail dress hugged tightly at her waist, and she strode across the wood floor between people towards the doors. I paced after her, darting between clusters of noisy drunks for the door, the air cooling with every step. Closer and closer, I reached them, and broke out, like a fresh wave breaks upon the sand, into the night. The sky was huge compared to the low, hot ceiling of the tropical, humid club, and so cool. The breeze shivered my damp clothes, and the stars littered the deep blue heavens that swam high above the twinkling lit skyscrapers of downtown Tenth Street.

In nothing but her deep blue dress, the very same velvety indigo of the Milky Way, and pale peep toe high heels, Michiru was wading slowly down the breezy concrete pavement towards the rows of cold parked cars. She stopped not too far from my motorbike when I called her breathlessly.

"Ms. Michiru!"

She turned to cock her chin over one sculpted bare shoulder, hazy in the strange, glittering streetlight of riotous bars and giddy clubs that buzzed about us. Her hair rustled against her cheek, eyes forming clear curiousity and deepening as I neared her. I strode precisely towards her, head high in surveillance of her intelligent, patient posture. I rested against my bike when I reached it, hands in pockets, and looked to her, eyes swimming in neon flash and electric twilight. Stood chest to chest, she was lovely and, for a while, I didn't know what to say. As ever, her cheeks were illuminated with the imagined promise of a smile, hoping to break. Drunks, cursing and laughing, danced and swaggered past us.

"Did you get what you went for in America?"

I let the coy curl of an untroubled grin tint my features, hair shook low into my eyes. I straightened up.

"I did".

She nodded slowly, eyes travelling down the thriving bejewelled street, bar signs soaking shimmering colours into her hair.

"It was a little lonelier without that picture of you," I continued. She looked back up to me, eyes awake.

"Oh".

I gave a low whistle and a chuckle.

"Are you not cold? Just in a dress like that?" I ventured, smiling a little more, curtly lifting a brow. She looked surprised.

"Well… a little. Not really. I don't know why I came out here".

She shivered a little, reminded of her bare arms, and the bareness of the delicate skin of her tight collar above her chest. I glanced at the sky, keeping myself in check.

"Ah, good thing it isn't a full moon".

Her eyes widened in glistening intrigue.

"Why not?"

"Bad things happen on full moons, you know, kitten".

I threw her a knowing wink, and, she smiled.

"You are really peculiar".

The living aqua of her eyes glistened with the translucent, uncertain beginnings of stories as I leaned a little closer to her. She parted her mouth to speak.

"Why… did you say goodbye to me like that the morning you left for America?"

I stalled, my gaze to her crystallising over. Words fell from my mouth.

"You were in Europe, right? Isn't that how everybody says goodbye there?"

She looked a little hurt and withdrawn for a moment, and pulled her hands up to her elbows, shivering a little. I regretted it.

_Shit._

She wavered in the breeze, and a new, thumping dance track lumbered in heavy pulses from the depths of the club across the road, louder than ever. This really wasn't the best place for this kind of chat. Why did she always evade me like this?

"Well, okay then," she murmured, stirring in the cold night air, "I think I'm leaving now. To go home".

She looked back up to me, meeting my eyes with evident deliberation, but didn't move, glance shining to me in Morse code. So, running a swift hand through my breeze-whipped hair, I leaned forward to place my mouth next to her cheek.

"You're lying, kitten," I whispered, feeling her warm cheek squeeze into a smile next to mine, "you haven't got your coat".

Her hand reached up to hold my wrist, and I withdrew, brows arched, to my full height. She looked breathlessly to me, and said,

"Is this your bike? Let's go somewhere".

-

Toru Abe hums a snippet of Bernstein, a little preoccupied, as he continues chopping up carrots. Looking up across to the kitchen window, he sees the dark swell of night framed warmly by the little ornaments and potted plants on his windowsill. Mrs. Abe pads into the kitchen in tatty old slippers, yawning, her long hair, with rebellious streaks of wild grey, loose over her shoulders.

"Bit late for dinner, Toru," she smoulders, glaring, as she opens the fridge and glances inside.

"I'm sure it is," he smiles, watching the orange lights of cars go past up towards the buzzing, bright middle of the district.

"You were off-key then," she snaps mischievously, straightening up. She shuts the fridge door, holding a milk carton, grinning triumphantly.

Mr. Abe raises his eyebrows generously to her, watching.

"Yes, dear, I'm sure".

"You're losing it in your old age, Toru dear".

She walks over to where he is standing, now peeling a potato, and gets a fresh glass for her milk from the draining tray next to the sink.

"Yes dear," he sighs warmly, "please put the radio on".

She gives him a sarcastic glare, but indeed turns to switch on the radio. A slow, melancholy violin piece wafts out form the old speakers.

"Ah," he sighs, "I ought to get Ms. Michiru to play this at the next concert. I think she did it a few years back".

His wife smiles indulgently.

"Oh, _I _thought you said Ms. Michiru was losing her touch".

He continues peeling his potato, eyebrows raised.

"Ah, well, she has been fuzzy this week. But that's girls I guess".

"You really ought to invest more time in a male violinist. Girls of that age are never reliable, getting crazy ideas".

"Ah," he says softly, gazing out over the dark city again, "you were like that once, so I wouldn't be so quick".

Mrs. Abe smiles behind his back.

-

_. LOVE it! Finally, things are beginning to get kicking! What fun to write! But easy now, don't think there's a happy end round the corner just yet, oh no! I've got a whole myriad of turbulent complications to keep our star-crossed lovers busy, hehe. Not least of which their impending fates as soldiers fast approaching on the horizon. They'll be lucky to get a peaceful minute, poor girls :O_

_Btw, if anybody has any suggestions for stoplight girl's name, please feel free to try a few on me! I've just realised she doesn't have a name, ha, poor girl :) Basically, if I do confess, my whole plan for the entire story is to get stoplight girl and Alessandro together – don't you think they'd be such a good couple? Ooh! Maybe later._

_Though, and I must stress this: I'm feeling SO guilty about poor Takeo – I've grown really fond of him. He's shown some very brave, darker sides to his personality – I didn't think he had it in him. He's become a lot more complicated than I'd originally planned. I had him down as a run-of-the-mill lady-killer to start with, but he really has got his own demons, and, despite all his crap life decisions and downward spiral behaviourally, I'm intent to believe in him to be a good guy. Ah, I love it when characters just grow on their own like that, really naturally, without you as their writer planning it. So, don't you all think we've gotten rid of Mimi's ex that easily! He'll be back – life's never that simple! :D Hehe._

_Stay tuned, my beloveds, so see you all soon, and peace! x_


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